<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Long Voyage by thehyades</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23110240">The Long Voyage</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehyades/pseuds/thehyades'>thehyades</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>1917 (Movie 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Love Triangles, M/M, No Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, and tom as a baker bc he totally would be, playing it fast and loose with the historical accuracies ngl, will as a bookworm bc he totally would be</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:27:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>54,237</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23110240</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehyades/pseuds/thehyades</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Here he is again, standing in the middle of the train platform, gazing at Will like the lovestruck fool he is. He has to say goodbye again but he can’t, his heart will splinter if he does and he will have no hope of ever recovering from it. </em>
</p><p>Or in another life, Tom is thirteen and Will is sixteen when he moves to Tom’s whimsical little village in the English countryside. It’s a simple yet merry life until war breaks out and duty calls thousands of men to fight for their country but Tom is still too young. The years pass, the war goes on and it becomes too painful to see his friend and his older brother go off to battle in France again and again. It's even harder when Tom realises he's in love with someone whose bound to be a soldier as long as it drags on. </p><p>From 1913 to 1921, this is a chronicle of war, brotherhood, the intoxicating rush of first love and the paralysing heartbreak that often follows.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joseph Blake/Lauri, Tom Blake/Max Baumer, Tom Blake/William Schofield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>82</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1913 - Tom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi lovelies,</p><p>the title is adapted from a line in the jumblies, an old english nursery (scho sings it to that baby in the ruined town), <em>for the sky is dark and the voyage is long'</em> also, there's no period typical homophobia bc that shit is depressing and everyone deserves to be happy. btw i'm not a german/french speaker i used google translate so if u do happen to speak either of those and know the correct translations please lmk.</p><p>aaaaand find me on tumblr: greatachilles (come and cry w/ me about blake and scho!)</p><p>disclaimer: i don't own 1917 or any of the characters, i'm just sad about the film and this is me dealing with it so leave me alone u greedy corporations!</p><p>okay i'll shut up now x</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Summer ends, Will arrives in Rainford on the cool autumn wind. Tom struggles to communicate with a new Austrian boy.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>&lt;...&gt;<br/><em>sic erit; haeserunt tenues in corde sagittae,</em><br/><em>et possessa ferus pectora versat Amor.</em><br/><em>Cedimus, an subitum luctando accendimus ignem?</em><br/><em>cedamus! leve fit, quod bene fertur, onus.</em><br/>&lt;...&gt;<br/><br/>Thus it will be; slender arrows are lodged in my heart,<br/>and Love vexes the chest that it has seized<br/>Shall I surrender or stir up the sudden flame by fighting it?<br/>I will surrender - a burden becomes light when it is carried willingly.</p><p class="p1">➼<strong> OVID, Amores I, 2</strong></p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p4">                                                   ☼                ☼        ☼                 ☼                         </p><hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>1     9     1     3 </b> </span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><b>August </b> </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It is yet another warm and wet summer in the quaint little village of Rainford. The population is no bigger than four hundred. Five hundred if you count the cows and sheep. Rainford has an obscene number of sheep. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Once, Tom dreamt the sheep had learnt English and they had had enough of their human overlords so they ran a <em>coup d’état</em> (it’s some fancy French phrase he learnt, Tom saw it in one of his grandfather’s stuffy books on some big revolution in France a long, long time ago. Granddad says it means <em>the government is useless, let’s take them down </em>or something like that). In his dream— well, nightmare — the whole village was wiped out — hold on. He’s gone on a bit of a tangent there. Joe says he does that a lot. What was he on about?</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Oh. Rainford, right. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom was born and raised in Rainford, he knows everyone in this tiny place and everyone knows him. It's both a blessing and a curse. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The blessing: everyone knows everyone, everyone has known everyone for generations and because of it, Rainford is the safest place this side of Europe. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The curse: everyone knows everyone, everyone has known everyone for generations and because of it, Rainford is the most boring place this side of Europe. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Not to mention, people are nosey. Mum always complains about it. Especially, Mrs. Schofield on Asher Lane. <em>Biggest gossip in the world that one, </em>Mum will say as she kneads the dough or hangs up the washing, <em>doesn’t know how to keep her beak out of people’s business, I mean, if Catherine Crabtree wants to run off and wed that weird old man, it’s her choice!  </em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe will roll his eyes and whisper to Tom, <em>Mum's the second biggest gossip in the world then.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom will try to stifle his laugh as they mouth along to Mum’s annoyed rant about Mrs. Schofield. They must have heard it a thousand times. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">On a particularly warm day in late August, he tries to stifle his laughter as they carry baskets packed with wet and freshly washed clothes to the back garden for drying. Myrtle, the family dog, lies on the patio and watches them. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Y’know, last Sunday, she came up to me after mass and said she heard your granddad might have TB,” Mum says as they start hanging everything up on the clothing lines, “the bloody cheek of it! I told her your granddad is strong as an ox and that she should worry about her wonky hip.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe finishes up pegging the bedding sheets and with Mum on the other side, he imitates the way she flings her hands in the air when she’s annoyed and mouths along to her rant. Tom just about covers his mouth to hide his laughter but he drops a pair of wet trousers on the grass. There’s a small muddy stain on it but he quickly scrubs it off and throws it on the line. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Tom,” Mum says, pushing the clothes aside to look at her youngest son, “is your uniform washed?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom groans at the mention of school. The glorious summer holidays are ending and he returns to Rainford Hill Secondary School in three days. It’s quite disheartening. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“No,” he says to which Mum throws him a displeased look, “I’ll wash ‘em in the next load.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What next load? Do you think we live in Buckingham Palace?” Mum asks as she picks up a large coat from the basket, “I’m not doing another load until next weekend and school re-opens on Tuesday. No,” she shakes her head, “after you’re done with this, you’re grabbing your uniform, washing it yourself and you’re drying it yourself. You need to learn to take care of your things, pet.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What?” Tom’s eyebrows rise. “But I can’t, I’m meant to be meeting Max in the Square soon.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t mention that he is also meant to be meeting Killy, his mate since nursery, because Mum hates him. Actually, hate is a strong word. Mum just doesn’t like Killy because she thinks he’s a “bloody loose cannon, mark my words that boy is going to end up in jail one day!” What Mum doesn’t understand is that Rainford is boring and Killy is the only one who knows how to have fun around here.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Not to mention Tom has seen how Mum spends hours scrubbing the clothes clean in the kitchen and he doesn’t have the time or the energy for it. These last three days of the holidays are crucial. It’s true freedom until he’s back at school, shackled to a desk for the next nine months. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mum pauses and glances at him, “Max? Who is that?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The pegged clothing dances in the summer wind. Joe dips under the dozen or so hanging shirts to peg the rest of the clothes up on a free line. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“He's the Baumers' son,” Joe says, stealing a few pegs from Mum’s basket, “they moved into the Pinewoods’ house a few months ago, remember?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” Mum nods, “yeah, the Germans—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Australian,” Joe says.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"<em>Austrian,</em>" Tom corrects, throwing a heavy bedsheet onto the clothing line and spreading it out so it doesn't crinkle. "They're from Austria-Hungary."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"What's the difference?" Joe asks just to be annoying.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Maybe, they're two different countries?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe continues to be annoying, "I don't get it."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom throws a wet sock at him but Joe dodges it easily.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Are you throwing clothes about?" Mum demands from the other side of the fluttering bedsheet.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"No," Tom and Joe say in unison.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Max and his family (his parents and an older cousin named Lauri) moved to Rainford at the beginning of Summer and it was the talk of the village for weeks. Like his father, Max was born and raised in Austria but his mother is English. Max told him his father worked as a lawyer in Vienna and returned to England be a beer-man or barman or — was it a barrister? It definitely began with B. Max’s father commutes to London while his mother — actually, Tom doesn't know what she does. Maybe she's a housewife like Tom's own mother. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom rises onto his tip toes to peg Granddad’s favourite woolly jumper onto the line. Joe says his growth spurt is coming but he’s fourteen in almost three months and there is no sign of any growth spurt. If it wasn’t for Jonny Braddock, he would be the smallest lad in school.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mum says, "you're not seeing that German boy—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Austrian," Tom says.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"I don't care, you're not going anywhere until your uniform is washed.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom groans, "fine, can I call his house phone and ask him to come here instead?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He sees his mother nod through the bedsheet. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Go on, pet," Mum says.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom grins and runs into the house. </span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>September </b> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">There are a lot of things that annoy Tom about being back at school. The early hours, the long days, the boring subjects but what it is even more annoying is the fact he has to wait for Joe in the school courtyard every day so he can walk home. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mum heard one story about the time Jonny wandered into the woods when walking home for the first time. Now, Mum is convinced that will be Tom’s fate because he fell into a ditch <em>once </em>when he was seven and it was Joe’s fault. Joe had been making him laugh too much with his silly faces and Tom tripped on a rock and fell.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom bids his friends goodbye, ignoring their snickers as they wander why he has to wait for his older brother to go home. Killy even laughs and runs off to play footy in the nearby park. Although, Max does wait with him but that might be because the other kids tease him about his Austrian accent and Tom doesn't. He has stuck to Tom's side since school started a week ago. He doesn't seem interested in making other friends. Then again, that could be because they all tease him for being Austrian. His English isn't perfect so he often reverts to German or French when he can't be bothered to think up a sentence in English.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He reverts to German right now as he climbs up onto the picnic table in the open courtyard and sits next to Tom. Tom has his elbow propped on his knee and his chin in the palm of his hand. The most annoying part of waiting for Joe is that he takes his time. He seems hellbent on punishing Tom for their mother’s paranoia. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"<em>Wo ist dein bruder?"</em> Max says as he cards a hand through his floppy blond hair. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom sighs, "English, Max."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Max rolls his eyes. He pauses, frowning as he tries to translate the sentence in his head. "Where…" he starts, "where...brother?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"Oh, where is my brother?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Max nods.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"I don't know, he should be out soon," he says, glancing out at the courtyard and the many students milling about. "He always takes the piss."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"What?" Max looks more confused than ever. "<em>Die Engländer machen keinen sinn.</em>"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom waves a hand in the air, "it means—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The sound of Joe's distinct laughter cuts him off. Tom turns in his seat on the picnic table and finally spots Joe leaving the writing block with at least half a dozen other students. Joe is always surrounded by people. There is a certain spark to him that pulls people in like a moth to a flame. Tom doesn't know where Joe inherited that spark because no one in their family has it. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>Natural born charisma</em>, Granddad once explained when Tom asked why Joe was so popular at school. <em>And his good looks, </em>Granddad added with a smug smile, <em>got that off me. </em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe's good looks are definitely a huge part of his charm. Joe is with his usual crowd, about six of them in total who circle around Joe like he is the sun. Sometimes, Tom thinks Joe might be the sun in human form. Everyone always gravitates to him. Tom ought to learn how he does that.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom taps Max’s shoulder and points to his older brother. “He’s here,” he says. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom and Max hop off the table. It’s only then that he notices a new addition to Joe’s entourage. A tall, slim boy walks along with them at the edge of the group. He holds a heavy book in one hand and he holds onto the strap of his book bag on his shoulder. He doesn’t seem interested in the loud conversation about God knows what, seeming content with simply observing the group. He’s not just new to the group, Tom realises, he’s new to the school. Tom has never seen him around before and in a village this small you often see the same face at least once a day. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I’ve got some errands to do but I’ll see you tonight!” Joe tells his friends before they split off. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The other five head off down the narrow path to the river but the newbie stays with Joe. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe grins, slings an arm around the boy’s shoulder and pulls him close. He mumbles something that causes the corner of the boy’s mouth to flit up in the faintest smile. He lets go of the boy and they walk over to Tom and Max. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“You took your time,” Tom says when they finally reach them. “Max and I have plans y’know.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Like what, little brother?” Joe says with a raised eyebrow, “an important business meeting?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s eyes narrow, “no, we’re helping Mum package the cherry jam for a delivery that’s due in a few days.” He frowns, “why are you not being forced to do it? How did you manage to get out of it?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The Blakes have run their cherry farm for generations. <em>All the way back to King George IV, </em>Granddad likes to remind them whenever Tom and Joe complain about their backs hurting from picking cherries all day, <em>it’s our way of life! </em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Eventually the farm will be Joe’s and he can carry on their way of life. Tom is glad of it, it’s the only perk to being the youngest one. He loves the farm and he loves picking cherries with the whole family when it’s harvest season but he doesn’t want to do it for the rest of his life. There is a whole world to see. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe shrugs, that easy grin returning, “I’m her favourite.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom snorts, “Myrtle is her favourite.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Myrtle is his favourite too. She’s a big, fluffy St Bernard Grandad brought home one day when Tom was six and he doesn’t think he’s exaggerating when he says Myrtle is the best dog in the world. She’s the reason Tom is always so eager to head home when school finishes. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, true, Myrtle is Mum’s favourite,” Joe says, “I’ve got a job mate, I gotta do the paper round every morning before school and after school. Why do you think I’ve been waking up at five a.m? It’s not for my health.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom shrugs, “I don’t know, you’re weird. I don’t really question the things you do anymore.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe stares at Tom with a blank look, then he laughs and pats the new boy’s chest. “Cheekylittle sod, isn’t he?” He says, “this is Tom, my baby brother.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not a baby,” Tom huffs, “I’m thirteen— that’s a man in some cultures.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Which culture?” Joe counters.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom flounders for an answer when the newbie speaks up. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Jewish,” the boy says, “when a Jewish boy turns thirteen he becomes a bar mitzvah and they have many of the same rights and responsibilities of a Jewish adult but it doesn’t necessarily mean he is an adult in the legal sense.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Everyone stares at him and he seems to squirm under their gazes. He shifts the book from one hand to the other and looks away, his wavy, caramel brown hair flutters in the afternoon wind. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“…and this fountain of knowledge here is William Schofield,” Joe says, glancing at Tom when he reveals the boy’s full name.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Will,” the newbie says, “I prefer Will.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s eyebrows rise. “Wait, Schofield like Mrs. Schofield? Are you related?” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The newbie nods, “uh, yes, she’s my grandmother.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom laughs and the boy — Will, he reminds himself — throws a confused glance at him. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What is it?” Will says.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe shakes his head, “it’s nothing mate, it’s just…your grandmother has a bit of a reputation in the village.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What kind?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Gossip,” Tom says, “your grandmother owns and runs the rumour mill in Rainford.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oh.” Will blinks, then scratches the back of his neck with his free hand, “I know. I would tell her to stop but my grandmother isn’t someone who listens…”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“No, no, please don’t,” Joe says, resting his hand on Will’s arm, “your grandmother is the only person who brings any excitement to the village. She must be involved in at least half the marriages in Rainford. It’s truly remarkable.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom jolts when Max pats his shoulder. Tom looks at him.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Qui est-il</em>?” Max asks. He has switched back to French. French or German, it doesn’t matter. Tom has trouble understanding him either way but the confused look on his face tells Tom he is curious about Will. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Mon nom est</em> <em>Will</em>,” the new boy says, “<em>je suis nouveau au village</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Max blinks up at him, his eyes wide, “<em>tu parles français?”</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Max looks like he's just found water in the desert. They all stare at Will again and he seems uncomfortable with all the attention on him.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will shifts the book around his hands again. “<em>Oui, tu ne parles pas anglais?”</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Un peu…mais ces gens ne parlent ni français ni allemand</em>,” Max says, throwing his hands up,“<em>sont-ils stupide? C'est vraiment ennuyeux!</em>”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom catches something that sounds like stupid. He bets Max is calling them stupid. He’s been in England for nearly three months now and he doesn’t seem any happier about it or better. Tom doesn’t understand why. If his family moved to a different country he would be so excited and happy to meet new people and explore foreign lands.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Max continues, “<em>tu es la seule personne civilisée que j'ai rencontrée.</em>”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. His mouth hangs open for a few seconds before hesnaps it shut and says, “uh, <em>merci?</em>”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What are you two nattering about?” Joe asks.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will presses his mouth into a fine line. “Just introducing myself,” he says, “are we going now?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe says, “yeah, I’ve gotta take these two home then I gotta do my paper round but once I’m done I’ll come to yours and we can head to the castle.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Which castle?” Tom glances between the older boys, “what are you doing?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Rainford has two castles. The main one is Rainford Castle in the centre of the village or the Square as everyone calls it. It’s old and gigantic, as if it was pulled straight out of a fairy tale, with its imposing stone towers and battlements. The whole village was built around it bit by bit over the centuries and now it’s a historical landmark they turned into a museum Mayor Leslie insists they keep in pristine condition. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The second one is Danecroft Castle in the outskirts of Rainford. Where Rainford Castle is majestic and well-kept, Danecroft lays in a state of ruin and decay. Grandad said it used to be a holiday home for some prince but then he got bored and gave it to the monks but then vikings came and killed all the monks and now everyone is convinced its haunted. Danecroft Castle is the most interesting thing in this village and everyone is scared of it. Well, everyone except Killy who goes to Danecroft every weekend like it’s his second home but Killy doesn’t count. Killy isn’t a normal person. He exists in his own mad world. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom has wanted to go up to Danecroft ever since he learnt about it but he knows Mum would kill him if ever went anywhere near it. One of these days he will have to beg Joe to take him.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Danecroft,” Joe says, “gonna have a little fun, watch the sunset.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom opens his mouth, “can I—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>No</em>,” Joe cuts him off. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom pouts, “why not?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“It’s strictly sixteen and over,” he says, “and last time I checked you were thirteen, Tom—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll be fourteen soon!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, in December,” he says, “that’s still quite a while away, now, c’mon, let’s get you two home. I don’t want Mum blaming me for missing the delivery deadline.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Ever since Joe’s seventeenth birthday in July when Mum told him he could go now take the truck down to London for deliveries Joe has gotten bossier than usual. He has such a pompous air about him you would think he’d been told he was the next in line to the throne. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe and Will start walking down the steep slope to the school’s main entrance, wrought iron gates between a pair of great beech trees. It may be mid-September but they still have their leaves. Summer always cling to the village for another month before autumn turns the world every shade of orange and red. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom stays by the picnic table with Max giving him a confused look, probably wondering why he hasn’t moved yet. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Was machen sie</em>?” Max says, switching back to German.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe and Will notice they aren’t following and they pause at the bottom of the slope to look up at them.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom raises his chin and tries to imitate his mother’s Serious Tone when she’s particularly annoyed at them. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“If—if,” Tom starts, “if you don’t take us with you to Danecroft I’ll tell Mum you’re going there. I’ll tell her it’s you’re favourite spot in the world.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It’s a bluff. He would never tell but desperate times and that. This isn’t fair. He wants to see Danecroft. Everybody else has, why shouldn’t he? </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will and Max glance between the two brothers. He expects Joe to glare at him and concede because it’s a perfect threat. Mum will ban Joe from leaving the house for at least a month and he can say goodbye to his paper round and any social life.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">To his annoyance, Joe just grins and says, “you tell Mum anything about Danecroft and I’ll tell Mum you’re best mates with Killy.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not!” Tom’s eyes widen, “and — and you wouldn’t.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He really isn’t best mates with Killy, it’s just Killy is the only one who knows how to have fun around here. If Mum finds out Tom might as well start preparing for his funeral.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Well, we’re now blackmailing each other, little brother,” Joe says, still wearing that wide grin, “if you raise the stakes be prepared for the risks.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Granddad gave Joe some really old book called <em>The Art of War </em>and now Joe thinks he’s a military mastermind. Tom tried to read it but it’s really boring. He gave up after one page. There’s no war so he doesn’t get the point of it. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Fine,” Tom pouts again and says. “You win.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He stomps down the slope with Max trailing behind him. The four boys walk past the iron gates and start the journey home. Max jogs over to Will and continues their earlier conversation in French. It’s the happiest Tom’s seen him, it’s the excited look in his hazel-brown eyes as he stares up at Will. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe falls back to walk with Tom. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“When did the newbie move to Rainford?” Tom asks, watching Max and Will. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yesterday,” Joe tells him as he fishes a chocolate bar from the inside of his blazer pocket and waves it in Tom’s face, “want one?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom gasps, “yeah!” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He tries to reach for it but Joe snatches it back.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“You can have it if you promise not to say a word about me going up to Danecroft tonight,” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom says, “you already threatened to tell Mum about Killy and it worked. Why have you moved to bribery? Does that Art of War book say confusion is the most lethal method?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe smiles, “I’d ask how you got to be so cheeky but I know it’s me.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He ruffles Tom’s curly, dark hair. Tom bats his hand away. He doesn’t know how many times he needs to remind Joe to stop doing that because he’s not a baby. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not a baby,” he says again and he will keep saying it until he understands.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Sure,” Joe says, handing him the chocolate, “by the way, I wasn’t going to tell Mum about your thing either. I know he’s your best mate.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom frowns in disgust. “He’s <em>not </em>my best mate.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Killy is the kind of person you can take in doses. An hour at lunch every at school is enough for Tom. Possibly more on the weekends if Killy’s idea for some fun is good. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom grins up at his brother as he unwraps the chocolate bar and takes a bite out of it. “So,” Tom says with the chocolate still in his mouth, “where’s the newbie from?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He’s not from Essex, not with that posh accent. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Berkshire,” Joe says as they turn onto a narrow street, “but he was at boarding school.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Fancy,” Tom swallows down the chocolate, “which one?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Eton. I know,” Joe says when he sees Tom’s raised eyebrows. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Wow,” he glances over at Will who is nodding along as Max speaks. Who knew Max was so talkative? He must have been starved for conversation in the last two and a half months. He frowns and glances back at his brother, “he left a fancy school like Eton to come to…Rainford? Why?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know,” Joe says with a shrug, “I only met him today, I’m not gonna ask for his life story am I?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom tries to shove Joe away but he doesn’t budge. He’s too strong. It’s because he’s been playing rugby since he was fifteen and now he’s the star player on the village’s rugby team. Tom is too young to join but the second he turns fifteen he’s trying out. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Keep trying, little brother,” Joe says, “you might be able to when you’re older.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I’d rather talk to the people who don’t even speak English,” Tom says and leaves Joe to walk alone to join Max and Will further down the street. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe’s laughter rings out in the warm afternoon.</span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>October</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Since Max met someone else who can speak French his mood has lifted and he’s excited to wait for Joe and Will at the end of each school day. It aggravates Tom for some reason. Max used to pester Tom with everything question under the sun in German or French. Tom was doing well in getting him to speak English every now and then but since William Schofield came he seems to have given up on that front. He’ll never learn if he doesn’t try and he’ll just alienate everyone in town. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">On their walks home, Max only speaks to Will and Tom has even heard him laugh a few times. Tom tells himself to be glad Max has made a friend but then Joe finds him pouting in the living room one rainy Saturday. Max is meant to come over tomorrow to do their homework together but Tom doesn’t see the point when Max refuses to speak any English. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe has just come back from a regular delivery of their cherries down to London and a few other nearby towns. Myrtle greets him with a wagging tail and follows him into the living room. He slumps down on the sofa with a sigh and strokes Myrtle’s fur. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What’s wrong with you?” Joe says. He looks at Myrtle and puts on a silly voice, “what’s wrong with him? Why is he so grumpy today, M?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Myrtle wags her tail faster in response and Tom considers not saying anything but he can’t take it anymore. “The other kids will never stop teasing Max if he doesn’t learn English but how is he going to learn English if he only ever speaks French with William bloody Schofield!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe blinks, staying quiet for a few moments as he takes in the information. Finally, he says, “why don’t you learn some French or Italian or whatever that kid speaks? He probably feels lonely, Will is the only one outside his family he can speak to properly. If you learn whatever language he speaks it might encourage him to learn English.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“That…” Tom says, turning to face his brother, “is a brilliant idea! You are brilliant!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe raises his hands, “don’t thank me, thank Sun Tzu.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Who?” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“You really oughta read more, Tom,” Joe says, slumping further down the sofa and closing his eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Please, you read one book—” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Three—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“—and you think you’re Shakespeare,” Tom says as he stands up, “right, I’m off!” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Off where?” Joe calls from the living room when Tom runs into the hallway to grab his coat off the hooks by the door. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Library!” Tom shouts as he shrugs on his coat.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Tom, you off to the Square?” Mum shouts from upstairs.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom pauses, he sighs and turns around. Mum stands at the top of the stairs, dressed in her flowery apron with her curly blonde hair pulled up into a messy bun as she carries balled up blankets in her arms. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What do you want me to get?” Tom asks. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Honey and flour from the market.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Okay.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Aren’t you going to write it down?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll remember,” he says. The last time he checked the clock on the mantle in the living room, it was one o’clock. The library closes at four and it only takes fifteen minutes to reach the Square so he should have plenty of time. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Supper is at six! Don’t be late!” Mum reminds him as he shuts the door. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom pauses once again on the stone steps by his front door to put his hand out and test how heavy the rain is. It’s light, light enough that he won’t be soaking when he gets to the library. </span>
</p><p class="p1">↮</p><p class="p5"><span class="s1">The Square has everything to meet the village’s needs. Need groceries? <em>Mr. Hemming's Butchery</em> has a good range of meat and the market near the park has lots of fresh fish, bread, vegetables and fruits. </span> <span class="s1">Fancy a bite? <em>Green Brew</em> is the quaint cafe next to the duck pond that does the best Victoria sponge cake. Need a drink and a dance? <em>The Round Table </em>is the pub by the statue of a fat man, where half the village gathers for a raucous time over a few pints of beer.</span></p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Peace and knowledge? Rainford Library is the place. Need a bed for the night? <em>The Round Table</em> always has a room. Do you miss God? St. Christopher’s Church will help you find him. Need to be transported to a time before yours? Get lost in the majestic halls of the Rainford Castle. Does your wife need cheering up? Get yourself a beautiful bouquet from <em>Floral Flora’s</em>. Fancy some new clothes? <em>Strut</em> has great fashion at low, low prices. The Square has everything. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom walks into Rainford Library, it’s a small yet tall building positioned between <em>Floral Flora’s</em> and St. Christopher’s Church. Tom only ever goes inside to research for homework and even he leaves within minutes. It’s too quiet and stuffy and he doesn’t like how Mrs. Hubert, the head librarian, acts like it’s her sacred kingdom. There’s not many people inside, mostly old people reading newspapers or shuffling mindlessly between aisles. Tom hides behind some furniture and pillars to avoid Mrs. Hubert. She might— okay, she definitely hates Tom because of an incident last year with Killy that had nothing to do with him. Killy was banned from the library and Tom escaped with his last warning. It’s best if Mrs. Hubert doesn’t know he’s here at all.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom has never seen anyone under the age of fifty in here, that is until he walks up the winding, spiralling staircase to the second floor and he sees none other than William Schofield. He was trying to find the Languages aisle or any aisle that deals with foreign languages that might help him learn French and he ended up in a serene, snug corner of the library. It’s furnished with a cushy sofa; a cup of hot tea, scones and piles of books sits on the low coffee table and an ample armchair Granddad would steal if he ever saw it. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will looks cosy on the sofa, an open notebook in his lap and another book in his hands as he reads. Tom tilts his head to the side to get a better look at the title but Will’s large hand is covering it. Tom stays still, watching him for a moment longer than necessary. He doesn’t really see Will outside of school, he normally just walks home with him, Joe and Max and they part ways. Sometimes Joe will go over to Will’s or they will go straight to Danecroft after school but he doesn’t make much of an effort to leave his house. Maybe this is where he goes whenever he isn’t at home or school. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will takes a pen he tucked behind his ear and scribbles a few lines down on his notebook. He just looks so at home surrounded by all these books. A large part of his fascination, Tom realises, is due to the fact Will is wearing a cobalt blue, knitted jumper. It looks soft to touch and warm to wear. He’s only seen Will in the dreary grey uniform of their secondary school and it’s such a striking sight to see him in colour. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom steps forward, the floorboards creak in response and Will’s head snaps up. Surprise flickers across his face when he sees it’s Tom. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom offers him a friendly wave of his hand. “Hello, Will.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will’s surprise morphs into confusion as his eyebrows knit together. “Uh, hello, Tom.” He glances around, “what…what are you doing here?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom feels a little offended at his confusion actually. Is it that strange for Tom to be in a library? Yes, it is but there’s no need to look so shocked about it. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I’m looking for a French dictionary,” he says, stepping closer to the sofa, “do you know where that would be?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">If he’s going to learn a language he would rather learn French. France is the first place he wants to visit when he goes travelling. France or the United States. He’ll flip coin on the day.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” Will closes the notebook in his lap and says, “in the References section downstairs.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Oh, no. If he goes perusing downstairs Mrs. Hubert will see him. He rubs his hands together, “listen, you wouldn’t mind going to grab me a French dictionary would you? It’s just…Mrs. Hubert isn’t my biggest fan.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Why?” He asks, his eyebrows pulling together again.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“It’s a…” he shakes his head as he figures out how to explain without sounding like a psychopath by association,“it’s a whole thing…Killy, y’know Killy, yeah?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Do you mean Peter Kilgour? The…” he pauses, giving himself a moment to search for the right word, “…eccentric ginger boy in your class?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> “He’s your best friend, isn’t he?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom groans. “I don’t know why everyone thinks— <em>no</em>, he’s not. Killy’s been banned from the library for life because he was burning holes into the books with matchsticks and almost set the whole place on fire.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">And Tom was only with him in the first place because he was trying to stop him but somehow he was named as an accomplice and almost banned himself. Mum had to bribe Mrs. Hubert with free cherry jam for a year to stop her from calling the police and banning Tom. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will’s eyes widen, “right…and, why do you want a French dictionary?” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom stuffs his hands into his trouser pockets and shrug, “I want to learn French.” He taps the leg of the coffee table with his foot and glances up at the ceiling, “I guess…I don’t know, Max always looks so happy when he’s speaking French with you I thought it would be nice if I learnt too so he wouldn’t feel lonely.” He looks at Will,“…and Joe said it would encourage him to learn English too.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, that’s a great idea,” he nods, “and it might save me from having my ear talked off.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will’s lips quirk up at that and it takes Tom a few seconds to realise Will is joking. It startles a laugh out of him. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Exactly,” Tom says, returning Will’s gentle smile. Maybe William Schofield isn’t just sombre looks and sad dark eyes after all. “It’s a win, win.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“But you can’t learn a language only using dictionaries,” he says, “it would improve your vocabularyif you already knew the language but without some prior knowledge or understanding of its structure it’s pointless.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s shoulders deflate, “oh, I guess you’re right.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He’s such an idiot, he really thought—</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I can teach you,” Will says.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom straightens and walks over to the sofa to sit down on its arm. “Really?” He says.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will chews the inside of his cheek, then says, “yes, I don’t mind, if it will get Max to finally learn English. I’m fluent, I can teach you enough that you can have some basic conversation with Max.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s face breaks out into a bright grin. “That would be brilliant! Let’s do that!” He glances around at all the books on the coffee table and on the sofa, “can we start now? Are you busy?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, we can,” Will says, closing the book in his hand, “no, I’m not busy, I was doing some annotation. I can continue later—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Annotation? What does that mean?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I was making notes on this,” Will shows him the cover of the book he had been reading. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>Songs of Innocence and Experience. </em>It looks like one of those old, prissy books Granddad would love and Joe would pretend to have read. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What’s it about?” Tom’s nose scrunches up, “Why are you reading songs? They’re meant to be sung.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will lets out a faint chuckle. He says, “it’s a collection of twenty-six poems intended to explore the two contrary states of the human soul.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Contrary?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Opposite,” Will says.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, and what are they?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“The two contrary states of the human soul,” Tom says, quite curious now. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Uh, the innocent, pastoral world of childhood,” Will says, organising the messy books into a neat pile on the table as he says, “against an adult world of corruption and repression.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s eyes narrow. “Sounds…depressing mate,” he says, placing an elbow on his thigh and leaning forward to look at the other books Will has on the table. Most of them are in French or Latin with only one or two in English. “Is this all poetry, then?” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will nods.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He looks at Will then, despite how gloomy it is out, daylight still floods into this quiet corner from the huge, arched windows before the sofa. He wasn’t close enough before or he didn’t look at Will long enough but he realises Will’s eyes are blue. They aren’t the same bright blue like Tom’s but a deeper, darker shade like the depths of the ocean. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Do you want to be a poet or somethin’?” Tom asks, picking up a book by someone called Rumi. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oh God, no, I don’t have the talent for that,” Will says, “I simply like to read and, well, sometimes translate them.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Translate ‘em into what?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“French to English, English to French, Latin to French and so on.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It is Tom’s turn to look confused. It sounds like torture to him. “Why?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I like it and it’s a good way to practice my French and Latin,” he says with a shrug. He puts his notebook and<em> Songs of Experience and Innocence </em>onto the coffee table, “I’ve done enough for today, do you want to start the lessons now?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom grins, “yes, please.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Great,” Will stands up, “I’m going to grab a few books from downstairs that will help and we get it on with it.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom throws himself down onto the sofa. “Sweet,” he says, folding his arms behind his head and settling into the comfy cushions properly. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Will teaches him the most basic words and phrases and their proper pronunciation and Tom leaves the library excited to show Max his new found skills. He gets the chance to show it off the next day when Max comes over to his house to work on their homework together. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">When the door opens and Max is standing on other side with a sullen expression and his book bag in hand, Tom greets him. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Bienvenue, Max,” </em>he says, remembering Will’s feedback on his enunciation, “<em>comment ça va?”</em></span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Max stares. “<em>Quoi? Tu viens de parler français?”</em></span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">He said <em>what? </em>And <em>French</em> at the end there but Tom has no clue what any of the middle bit means. </span>
</p><p class="p6"><span class="s2">“<em>Oui, j'apprends le français,” </em>he says, talking slowly to make sure he gets the words right.</span> <span class="s2"><em>Yes, I’m learning French.</em> If this is the headache Max has to go through every time he tries to speak English, Tom doesn’t blame him from resisting to learn.</span></p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">He takes out the note Will translated for him in French. He holds a finger out as he unfolds it and starts reading. </span>
</p><p class="p6"><span class="s2">“<em>Je — j’</em></span> <span class="s1"><em>apprends parce que je veux te parler,” </em>he pauses, convinced he is butchering Max’s language but he pushes through,<em> “mais seulement si tu apprends l'anglais aussi.” I’m learning because I want to talk to you but only if you learn English too.</em></span></p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Max’s smile is luminous as he nods, “<em>oui, d’accord!” Yes, okay!</em></span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Tom smiles back and for the first time it feels like Max is really seeing him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">↮</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Max’s reaction was so heartfelt and bright, Tom goes looking for Will at school. He searches the courtyard at lunch the next day. Like always, Joe is surrounded by his entourage but oddly enough Will isn’t there. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know where he is,” Joe says when Tom asks him, “he doesn’t come out at lunch.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s first guess at Will’s whereabout is correct. He’s in the school library, which is really just a small room with four book shelves. He’s the only one there, sitting on one of the round tables as he writes in that notebook of his and glances back and forth from the book in his hand. It’s odd to see him surrounded by books in his school uniform, he half-expected Will to be wearing that knitted jumper.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Tom slams his hands on the desk and Will almost falls out of his chair. He stares at Tom with wide eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“Are you a vampire, mate?” Tom says as Will picks up the books that fell to the floor, “or one of those mythical creatures that burst into flame if they’re not in a certain place?”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Will piles each book on top of the other. “What?”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“If you’re not in a library at least once in the day will you burst into flames?” Tom asks with his cheekiest grin, “oh, I know, did you sell your soul for all the knowledge in the world but the devil forget to mention you have to learn it so now you practically live in the library?”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Will looks at him. He chews the inside of his cheek, a habit Tom has noticed he does when he’s not sure what to say, which is often. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t live in the library,” Will says, flicking through the pages of a hefty book filled with weird symbols. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“What’s that?” He asks. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“Sumerian,” Will says, tucking a pen behind his ear, “it’s the oldest written language in history. It was spoken until 2000 B.C.”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“Are you learning another dead language?” Tom asks. Will has to be the oddest person he’s ever met. “Why?”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Maybe he doesn’t want to speak anyone or maybe he wants to talk with the dead but — Will doesn’t look like a witch but aren’t witches women? Tom knows witches aren’t real, no matter how many times Killy tries to scare him — hold on, he’s gone on a bit of a tangent again. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“If Sumerian is the oldest written language in the world then it would have the oldest written poetry,” Will tells him, “like the Epic of Gilgamesh. It’s the earliest surviving great work of literature and I’d like to read it in its original language.” He shuts the thick book and glances up at Tom, “did you want something?”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Tom blinks. He had almost forgotten why he even came in the first place. It’s such a striking sight whenever Will speaks about poetry or translation he seems to come alive, his gentle voice becomes firmer and the melancholy look in his deep blue eyes disappears for a moment. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, right,” he says. “Max was really happy when I spoke to him in French and I want to keep learning so can you keep teaching me?”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“Uh, sure,we can do it at the library in the Square unless you’re still scared of Mrs. Hubert then we can find some—”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not scared of her,” Tom says, “she’s a hundred or something stupid like that. She just doesn’t like me because of the incident with Killy which <em>wasn’t</em> my fault.”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“Okay, then, meet me at the library on Saturday at ten o’clock.” Will pauses, “does Max want me to teach him English?”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“No, he has an older cousin whose teaching him.”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">And to be honest, Tom would prefer it was just him and Will. He can concentrate better.</span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>November</b> </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">He likes Will as his teacher. He’s not bossy or patronising like the teachers at school and he doesn’t treat Tom like an idiot. They agreed to meet every Saturday morning in the same spot at the library. Will always wears a knitted jumper, they are always vivid in colour and Will always looks perfectly content in them. It has Tom wondering where he is getting this infinite supply of jumpers because <em>Strut</em> doesn’t have that many.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“Why do you know Latin?” Tom asks Will when they are huddled on the sofa, looking over French conjugation,“it’s a dead language, isn’t it? No one speaks it anymore.”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“Latin never truly died,” Will says, taking a sip of his tea. Today, Will wears another knitted jumper, this one is multi-coloured with bright patterns and shapes.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Mrs. Hubert made the tea for him. She offers him the sweetest smile every time he comes in and makes him tea despite his protests.And Tom? She glares at Tom, tells him she’s got her eye on him and that one wrong move will have him banned for life like his best friend. Tom will frown and tell her Killy is not his best friend but it’s fruitless. Mrs. Hubert, like the rest of this bloody village, have permanently tied Tom to Killy.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“Latin evolved into French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese and Romanian,” Will says, “those are known as the Romance languages. To learn Latin is to have an understanding of six languages at once. Plus, it can improve your own English since fifty percent of English words are from latin and…”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“And?” Tom prompts. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Will throws him that faint smile Tom has grown accustomed to in the last couple of weeks. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“And Eton gave us no choice but to learn it,” he says. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Tom spins a pen between his fingers. “So…why’d you leave Eton? Isn’t it supposed to be the fanciest school in the country?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I—I had some issues at home. I had to leave.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What issues?” Tom says, feeling close to solving the quiet mystery around William Schofield. There is something about him that feels hidden, an ever shifting puzzle with a thousand possible combinations. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will glances away, growing tenser and more uncomfortable with each second. “Nothing worth talking about,” he says and points to the list of common verbs for Tom to memorise, “go on.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom lets it go and starts reading out the verbs. It seems he not only inherited his mother’s eyes and her love for baking but also her nosiness.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>↭</b> </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">The more he speaks French to Max, the more Max speaks English. On the last day of November, Max is over at Tom’s for their usual homework session. They finished their arithmetic assignment and they have been in Tom’s room playing Go Fish for the last hour. Tom was worried he would have to spend a good thirty years explaining the game to Max in a mixture of basic French and broken English but it turns out Max knows the game well. Will said playing games is a good way for both of them to learn each other’s language. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Will had them make a deal a few weeks ago when Tom and Max found him in the library knee-deep in foreign poetry. When they play their games, Max can only speak in English and Tom can only speak in French. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">To Tom’s ever growing annoyance, Max is winning at Go Fish and his grin only gets wider each time he gets a card off Tom. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“Myrtle!” Tom calls and she comes bounding into the bedroom, her tail wagging like always. She stares at him with those big, brown eyes and Tom can’t help but give her a cuddle. “Sit,” he commands. “You’re my good luck charm.”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Myrtle does as she’s told and settles next to Tom, watching their game with interest.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“This is very easy,” Max says in his heavy Austrian accent. Honestly, it’s like music to Tom’s ears every time Max speaks English. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Tais-toi.” </em>Tom glares at him. <em>Be quiet. </em></span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Max laughs and Tom grins. He should have learnt French sooner. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">They are on their third round of Go Fish with Max still in the lead when Joe barges into his bedroom. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“What the — can you knock?” Tom frowns up at Joe. “<em>c’est grossier.” </em></span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Qui? Ton frère?</em>” Max says. <em>Who? </em>Something <em>brother? </em></span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Tom gives Max a look and Max rolls his eyes like he always does when Tom reminds him to speak English. “Who are you…naming…” he winces, probably thinking it’s not the right word, “…rude?”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“Me, mate,” Joe says, “and we share this bedroom, Tom, I don’t need to knock to come into my own room.” He nods behind him, “Max, your cousin is here to take you home.”</span>
</p><p class="p6"><span class="s2">Max springs up off the bed, “ah, perfect.” He looks at Tom, “I…I think I win the — <em>Scheiße,</em></span> <span class="s1"> <em> ich habe das wort vergessen—”</em> </span></p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“The game?” Tom provides.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Max snaps his fingers, “yes! The game, I win, yes?”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">It hurts him to admit but his grandfather is raising him to be a man of honour. “<em>Oui</em>,” Tom concedes with a deep sigh.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Max cheers and heads out of the room. When he’s out of earshot, Joe closes the door and walks over to Tom’s bed.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“Why the bloody hell didn’t you tell me about Lauri?” Joe hisses, sitting down at the edge of the bed.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">Tom stops shuffling the cards back together and looks at him. “What are you on about?”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“Lauri,” Joe says, “your little Australian—”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Austrian</em>,” Tom bites out. He knows Joe says Australian just to annoy him at this point. </span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, yeah,” Joe waves a hand dismissively in the air, “Lauri, your little Austrian mate’s cousin, why didn’t you tell me about her?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It turns out Max’s mother isn’t a housewife like Tom’s. She works as a translator for Cambridge University Press. They send her books upon books they want translating from or into Latin or German or whatever language they require and she does it. Lauri helps her with the translations. Whenever Tom goes to Max’s house he passes by Lauri in Mrs. Baumer’s study surrounded by piles of paper writing and rewriting. It seems the whole Baumer family are talented linguist while some, if not all the people in Rainford can barely speak English. He’s only spoken to her a handful a times as she is always busy in the study with her head buried in about a dozen books. Tom thinks Lauri and Will would get on like a house on fire.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“What is there to say?” Tom throws him a confused glance, “I’ve only met her a couple of times.” He shrugs, “she’s seems like a lovely girl.”</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“How old is she?” Joe asks, “she doesn’t go to our school, I would have noticed her.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom wraps a rubber band around the deck of cards as he says, “I don’t know? She’s not much older than you I don’t think.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What does she do?” He asks, “if she’s not in school…is she married?"</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“She helps Max’s mum translate really old, really boring books for Cambridge University,” Tom says, a little confused by Joe’s sudden interest in Lauri, “And no, she’s not married. Why are you so— <em>oh</em>.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He recognises the bright, yearning spark in Joe’s green eyes now. He’s seen it before when Joe spent the last two summers pining over Sadie Fairchild, the vicar's eldest daughter. She was beautiful, she had many suitors in the village and other towns too but she had a soft spot for Joe. It’s no surprise, everyone in Rainford has a soft spot for him. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He worked himself to the bone to impress her and show her he could provide a good life for her on their cherry farm, at one point he was sleeping two to three hours a night as he struggled to juggle the three jobs he had picked up. It had worked until a wealthier young man she had known since childhood had swept into town and asked for her hand. Joe didn’t know she had accepted his proposal until he found her with her bags packed at the train station. She had whispered <em>goodbye, I’m sorry</em> and gone to live her new life in Scotland. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe spent a good month in bed, mournful for a love lost and paralysed by the heartbreak. It took Tom, Mum and Granddad another month to coax him out of bed and another month again to bring him back to his old self. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>The loss of love can hurt, </em>Granddad had said when Tom asked if Joe was ill, <em>but there are different kinds of love and all can heal. </em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The yearning look in Joe’s eyes makes him nervous. He doesn’t want to watch Joe wither away as the heartbreak consumes him. Sadie showed Tom that Joe doesn’t just fall in love, he dives in head first with the biggest smile on his face. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Are you…” Tom starts, “are you interested in Lauri?” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What? No, no, <em>no</em>,” Joe tells him, leaning back on his hands. He scratches his cheek, “why? Do you think she’s interested in me?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom sighs.</span>
</p><hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>December</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom turns fourteen on the fourth. It’s a Wednesday, meaning he has school but he won’t let that get him down. He wakes up to heavy snowfall outside and Mum skipping into his bedroom to pepper him with kisses all over his face.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Happy birthday, pet!” Mum gushes as she squeezes his cheeks. “Fourteen! My god, you’re growing up fast!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Mum, quiet, please,” Joe groans from his bed on the other side of the bedroom, “some of us are forced to go to school.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The force in that sentence is their mother, who is convinced a full and long education is the best chance the boys have going far in life. School is only compulsory until fourteen and you can leave to work. But then Mayor Leslie introduced ‘further education’ from fourteen to eighteen at Rainford Hill Secondary and everyone kid was forced to go by their parents.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Mum,” Tom complains as he pushes her hands off his face, “I’m not a baby.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mum hums and stands up, “if you’re not a baby then you won’t want the cherry pie I made for your birthday will you?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom throws his covers off and leaps out of bed. “Really?” He grins. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mum laughs, “my, my — someone is excited.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“It’s my birthday!” He exclaims, running over to Joe’s bed and jumping on top of him. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe grunts. “Why am I being punished, lord? What have I done?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom rolls off Joe, runs out of the room and slides down the banister. Myrtle rushes out of the livingroom to greet him at the bottom of the stairs. Tom pets her head and she barks in excitement. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom chuckles, “is that you wishing me happy birthday?” Myrtle barks again and Tom kneels down to hug her. He smiles, “thanks, M, you’re my favourite, y’know.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom stands up and heads into the kitchen. He gasps when he sees a freshly-made cherry pie sitting on the windowsill. His mouth waters. The steam coming off the cherry pie tells Tom it was only taken out of the oven moments ago. Mum's the best baker in Rainford and anyone who says otherwise is adirty liar. Her famous cherry pies have won the top prize at the village’s annual spring fêtes for the last five years. She only makes it on special occasions like birthdays or holidays and sometimes after church if Joe and Tom have behaved well enough throughout the week. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Ah, the birthday boy makes his debut,” Granddad says, folding the large newspaper in his hands and setting it down on the round dinner table. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom spreads his arms apart, “if you would like to shower me with praise you can.” He grins, “you have been blessed with another a year of my presence.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Or cursed,” Joe grumbles, trudging into the kitchen as he rubs his eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mum smacks the back of Joe’s head. “No cheeky comments from you on your little brother’s birthday.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe’s still dressed in his long johns like Tom. Mum follows behind him, smiling with her hands clasped together. She must have forced Joe out of bed so they could all have breakfast as a family on Tom’s birthday. She has already set the table with a jug of fresh orange juice and an assortment of fruit, scrambled eggs, fried mushrooms and beans in little dishes. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s grin widens as he pulls a chair out and sits down next to Granddad. “Exactly,” he says, “you treat the birthday boy with the respect he deserves.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe snorts and joins them on the round table. He rests his head in the palm of his hand and lets out a loud yawn. Mum puts on the oven gloves and picks up the steaming pie off the windowsill. Tom, Joe and Granddad’s wide eyes follow Mum as she places it in the middle of the table. She takes off the gloves and hangs them on the back of Joe’s chair. She sits down on the seat between Tom and Joe.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Before you all inhale the pie in ten seconds,” Mum says with a raised finger, “let’s say grace.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Everyone groans but they concede and take each other’s hands. </span>
</p><p class="p1">↮</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom offers to help Mum clear up when they finish eating but she shoos him out of the room and tells him to get dressed for school. He hugs her, giving her cheek a quick kiss as she washes the dishes before he heads upstairs. He just had a lovely breakfast with his family and three slices of cherry pie, his mood will be bright all day.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe throws his uniform at him when Tom returns to their bedroom. “Get dressed,” he says, shutting the door and lowering his voice. “But we’re not going to school.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom picks up his uniform off the floor. “We’re not? Is it shut because of the snow?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom doubts it. There could be an avalanche and Rainford Hill would still be open. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“No, we’re going to Danecroft,” Joe says as he buttons up his white shirt.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom gasps. “Really?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, it’s your birthday present,” Joe says and steps closer to Tom, “but, listen, you can’t say a word to Mum.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom nods as he pulls on his trousers, “I know, I know.” He frowns, “wait, are we going now?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, by the time school ends it’ll be dark, it’s better to go now. We should be back by lunch time.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“But the school will tell Mum if we’re not in.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I’ve already sorted that.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“How?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe starts putting on his tie. “They may or may not think we’re going off to our distant relative’s christening.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom grins, “you are a bloody genius.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe grins back, “I keep telling you to thank Sun Tzu.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Alright,” Tom says, pulling on his shirt, “thanks Sun Tzu!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">When they have finished getting dressed, they head downstairs. Mum hugs them both, holding onto Tom a little longer to wish him happy birthday and kiss his forehead.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It’s stopped snowing when Tom and Joe step outside but everything has been covered in white. Tom pulls on his gloves and stuffs his hands into his coat pockets as Joe pushes their small wooden gate open. Tom can’t stop smiling. He has wanted to go to Danecroft Castle since he was eight and Joe came back home and told him about how grand and menacing it was. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“We might go to Idun's tree too,” Joe says as they walk up the hill with the snow crunching under their feet, “but we’ll play it by ear.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Idun's tree or the Tree Stuck in Time is a great pink cherry blossom tree deep in the forest. It blooms all year round, always shedding and raining the forest with blossoms, never losing any blossoms. No matter the weather or the season it always bloomed. There’s an old legend in Rainford that on her out of the Underworld, Idun fell asleep against the tree once and it never stopped blooming. If you lay down under the tree Idun will bless you with health and peace. You will find a few of the villagers napping under Idun's Tree all spring and summer.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Have I told you you’re my favourite brother?” Tom says, his cheeks hurting from how much he’s grinning now. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe smirks, his breath comes out in white puffs, “I’m your only brother.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Even better!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe laughs as they walk on.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 1914 - Will</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will confronts a dreaded day. Tom and Max must deal with a shift in their friendship. Joe and Lauri grow closer. Far, far away, the grand stage for a fatal war is set in place.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p4">                                            ☾                  ☾          ☾                ☾                         </p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>1     9     1     4</b> </span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><b>February </b> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It is still snowing when Will wakes up. He is greeted with a headache and a deep cough wracking his body. Will reaches across for the jug of water Nan left for him. He pours himself a cup and with shaky hands he takes long, deep gulps. Will sighs and lies back down, pulling the duvet covers over his head. He has been ill for the last three days, shivering and sweating from a high fever. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It was his seventeenth birthday yesterday, on the first day of February, and he spent it fighting off this cold. At least he was too ill to be awake for most of it. The fever has gone down somewhat and he doesn’t feel like he’s going to vomit from the dizziness every time he opens his eyes. Silver linings. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will’s grandmother has been a germaphobe as long as he can remember, even far back to his younger years when he would visit her with his father, she always insisted all dirt should be left outside. It came as no surprise to him that the moment he said he felt ill, Nan quarantined him in his bedroom with strict orders not to leave until his temperature was down. She comes into his room every three hours like clockwork to check on him or bring him his food. She turned away any and all visitors asking for Will, notifying them of his illness the second they try to knock on the door to inquire. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will is close to sleeping again when Nan knocks on the door. He coughs and glances up at the door, “come in.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The door opens and Nan walks in holding a tray and wearing gloves and the mask she made herself the second she heard Will cough. Honestly, you would think Will was infected with the Black Death the way she’s carrying on. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Good afternoon, pumpkin,” Nan says, “how are you feeling?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I’ve been better,” he grumbles back.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">She tuts as she trudges over to Will, “come on, up you get, time for lunch.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">His head aches at any slight movement but he pushes himself up and sits back against the bed’s wooden headboard. When he first moved in and saw his room featured an ornate king-sized bed Will wanted to swap it for the single one in the guest room downstairs because he didn’t think he would need such a large bed. It felt gratuitous. The years he spent at Eton in the small shared room, on the narrow, single bed taught him utilitarian ways. After spending the last three days — including his birthday — bed bound, he sees the advantages of having such a big bed. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Nan sets the tray on Will’s lap and says, “now, eat up.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">She has made him another large bowl of spinach and chicken soup with a fresh roll of bread and she expects him to finish every last bit of it. Apparently, nobody wastes food in Rainford. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Thanks, Nan,” Will says, picking up the big spoon in the bowl and starting to slurp up the warm, rich soup.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“You’re welcome, pumpkin,” Nan says, although it come out a little muffled through her mask. “Now, rest, I’ll be back up soon with some fruit.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will nods as she turns and leaves the room, shutting the door behind her. He cranes his neck and looks out of the window at the falling snow burying the back garden in white. When he’s sure she has gone, he takes his worn-out copy of <em>Songs of Innocence and Experience</em> and opens it to the page he had earmarked earlier. He has had it for years and he must have read it over a thousand times now butintricate poetry always reads fresh.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Somehow, Nan got into her head doing anything other than sleeping would make Will worse. It was his mother’s before her death. Will never met her as she died giving birth to him but Father always said it was her favourite book and the dearest thing she owned. He found it in Father’s study when he was eleven, about two months before Father shipped him off to Eton, and he spent all day reading it, soaking in the exquisite prose. The governess found Will huddled beneath the bookshelves in the evening, red-faced and annoyed that he had forgotten about his tutoring. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>I — I was just reading,</em> Will had told her as she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him through the vacant halls of the Schofield mansion. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>What book? </em>Mrs. Keller had spat when they reached the library where all of Will’s tutoring took place. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will had nervously passed her the book and Mrs. Keller’s sour mood seemed to vanish.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">She stared at the cover, <em>where did you get this?</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>Father’s study, </em>Will had replied, wondering how much trouble he had gotten himself into this time. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>This was your mother’s,</em> Mrs. Keller said with that faraway look in her eyes, s<em>he adored poetry. </em>Mrs. Keller had turned to him then, <em>did you finish it all?</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will shook his head, <em>no, but I did finish the Songs of Innocence and I was about to start the Songs of Experience. </em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mrs. Keller watched him for a moment before she said, <em>the Songs of Experience are rather woeful but they were your mother’s favourite. </em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>Why? </em>Will had asked, confused as to why his mother would prefer such bleakness. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>I was going to have you recite your times tables but I think reading this — </em>she held up the book <em>— would be more beneficial, wouldn’t you agree? Let’s work on the Songs of Experience today and perhaps you can tell me why your mother favoured them so much.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will had nodded eagerly and quickly sat down to begin. Later, much later when Will had settled into life in Eton he had snuck the book back with him to his dormitory after a particularly lonely Christmas at home. Father had no use for it and nor did he seem to notice it had gone. The earthly remnants of his mother belonged with him.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will sits in bed, comfy and satiated as he re-reads his mother’s favourite book and dips the bread into the soup his grandmother made. He doesn't have much of an appetite but he forces himself to eat. When the bowl is empty and the bread is finished and he has reached Songs of Innocence’s penultimate poem, Will places the tray on the bedside table and snuggles back under the duvet covers. Sleep takes him in moments. </span>
</p><p class="p1">☾</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will’s fever finally disappears on Tuesday evening, a full week since he got it. Nan thinks it’s because he’s always “walking around all hours of the night and day with those Blake boys and without a proper coat!”. The village’s physician Nan harassed to coming around and checking Will was not dying said it’s because it’s winter and these kinds of illnesses are common with this season. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Nan comes into his room, wearing the gloves and the mask once again to check his temperature with one of her many thermometers that evening. She nods when she sees its dropped down to normal. She declares him healthy and tells him he can leave his bedroom and join her for supper downstairs.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I made a roast,” she says, packing away the thermometer, “I know it’s not Sunday but I reckon it’s the boost you need to ensure you stay healthy, pumpkin.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will has never felt more relieved to leave his bedroom after a week of dreary confinement. It has even stopped snowing outside. He’s surprised by how eager he is to go to school tomorrow, to see Joe and hide a smile as he argues with Tom over the smallest things. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The roast chicken and vegetables Nan made is filling and Will surprises himself again by how hungry he is when he sees it laid out on the dining room table. His appetite has finally returned. Nan chats about the various things people get up to in the village as they eat. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“The spring fêtes is in a few months and I hope Mrs. Blake adheres to the new guidelines on the size of the pies for the bakery competition because it will not be accepted if she doesn’t,” Nan says, pointing her fork at Will, “I’ve never met someone with such arrogance in my life. Flora Kissinger told me that she told George Hemmings that…”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Uh-huh,” Will says, nodding along but not really listening. He zoned out twenty minutes ago. He always lets her gossip wash over him. He has no use of it. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“…translate them for her,” Nan says when Will tunes in a few minutes later.The <em>translate</em> filtered through to him.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He swallows the slice of carrot down and says, “pardon?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Mrs. Bäumer, the German—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Austrian,” Will says. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">It is perplexing that no one (except Tom and the Bäumers’ themselves) in the village seems to understand or care that Germany and Austria-Hungary are two different places. Every time he has heard people refer to the Bäumers’ it’s usually followed up by ‘those Germans’ and Tom’s annoyed correction that ‘those Germans are actually Austrian, you numpty.’ He’s pretty sure Joe thinks the Bäumers’ are Australian.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, yes, Austrian,” Nan says, scooping more veg onto her plate, “well, Mrs. Bäumer’s niece, I believe her name is Leila or Lala or—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Lauri,” Will provides. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He hasn’t spoken to Lauri but he has seen her a few times when he drops Max off at his house on his walk home from school with Joe and Tom.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Nan frowns, “it’s rude to interrupt, pumpkin.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will goes back to cutting the chicken breast as he grumbles, “sorry.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Apology accepted,” Nan tells him with a nod, “as I was saying, Lauri, Mrs. Bäumer’s niece came round yesterday looking for you.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He looks up at that, “why?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Perhaps she heard Will was teaching French to Tom and she wants him to teach English to Max but he’s sure Tom mentioned that she was doing that already. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Well, Lauri and her aunt are translators, they translate many works for Cambridge but she said they’re having a little trouble with a few books they were sent,” she explains, “and she wanted to ask for your help since she knows you’re fluent in Latin and French.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“How does she know that?” Will asks, although he suspects Tom or Max told her. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know dear but does it matter? She said they would pay you too. It’s a great opportunity.” Nan says, “it’s exactly what you need after spending all week in bed. I told her I’d tell you as soon as you were better. Would you like to do it?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will has been in Rainford for over four months now and he’s still not used to being asked about his own wants and needs. Such things were decided for pupils at Eton and his father never cared to ask. It’s all Nan has asked since he moved to the village. <em>Do you want to go to Rainford Hill Secondary? What would you like for supper? Pumpkin, I’m going to knit you another jumper which colour would you like it in? Are you feeling better? </em>She was already precious to him before as the only member of the Schofield family who was not cold or dead but he grown to cherish her more for it.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I…I don’t know, I’m not a professional translator,” Will answers, feeling a mixture of excitement and nerves at the prospect of translating for Cambridge University. “Are you sure she was looking for me? Perhaps she was mistaken.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Nan gives him a flat look. “She specifically asked for you, pumpkin,” she says, “apart from the Bäumers, you are the only person in the village who speaks more than one language. She was not mistaken.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will purses his lips and glances down at his plate, mulling over the idea. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I would have told her to go away because you were ill but the poor lass looked quite distressed,” Nan continues as Will pushes the roasted vegetables around his plate, “and yesterday, she came by again dropped off the books she wanted help in translating in case you agreed.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will looks up again, his interest piqued more than ever. “She dropped the books off? What books?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Nan gestures to his plate of half-finished food, “when you’ve finished that I’ll show you.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will finishes his supper in minutes and waits for Nan to finish hers before he asks her to show him. She tuts, probably amused by his sudden eagerness and heads into the living room with Will following behind. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">A pile of three books bounded tightly by ribbon sit on the low coffee table. Nan points to them and sits down on the long sofa with a sigh as Will picks them up and sits down on the armchair opposite. He undoes the ribbon and flips through all three, trying to get a sense of the language and the story. Two of them are written by Ovid, <em>The Metamorphoses </em>which he read numerous times in Eton for class and for leisure, and <em>Amores </em>which he never read as Eton’s only surviving copy of the book was kept in a glass cage in College Library. <em>Les</em> <em>Fleurs du Mal </em>is the third book, <em>The Flowers of Evil.</em>Why does Lauri need help with translating it? Isn’t she a native French speaker? He smiles. Will has never had the chance to read it as Eton banned it the second it had been published because it was an ‘insult to public decency’. No one at Eton knew what this supposed indecency was and Will looks forward to finding out what it is. </span>
</p><p class="p1">☾</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will’s suspicion that Tom informed Lauri of his trilingual skills are confirmed two days later. It’s a cold and frigid Thursday as Will makes the journey home with Joe, Tom and Max. Joe and Max walk a few feet ahead of them. Max’s English has improved rapidly in the last two months, he has a basic understanding of it now. He told Joe to speak slower when he is conversing with Max as the more people Max talks to the quicker his English will evolve. Max’s face is scrunched up in concentration as Joe speaks to him about winning the latest rugby match, whether or not he is following the conversation is unclear but what matters is that he is trying. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom walks beside him, waving his hands in the air as he tells Will about the latest trick he taught Myrtle. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will glances down at him. He says, “thank you.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom blinks and glances up at him. He says, “for what?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom is a lot sharper than most people think. He has picked up French with such lightning speed and determination, Will wouldn’t be surprised if he was fluent by the end of the year. He simply needs to keep practicing. His motivation is based on Max’s own goal to learn English which makes it a juggling act to ensure Tom and Max stay on track.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He’s overheard some of the teachers talk about him, particularly Mr. Clayson who teaches the younger children arithmetics. The amusement in his voice as he jokes with the other teachers about Tom’s mathematical abilities is — it is aggravating to say the least. He hopes Tom hasn’t heard any of it, judging by Tom’s consistently sunny disposition he hasn’t heard it or he doesn’t care. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“For telling Lauri I’m a translator,” Will says, wanting to add <em>even though I’m not</em> but decides against it, “she dropped off some books she needed help translating and I’ve been working on them to show her today.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It was what he needed after spending a week in bed battling a horrible fever. He devoured all the books Lauri left within a day and he’s spent every day since then working on the Latin to English translations for Ovid as she requested. He has not started on<em> Flowers of Evil</em> as she didn’t make it clear in her notes which language she wanted it translated to. It’s most likely English but he didn’t want to waste time doing that only to find out she wanted it in Latin. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, right, you’re welcome,” Tom says, glancing away and then turning to face Will with one of those bright grins that turns him into the spitting image of Joe. His grin falters, “I felt bad that you spent your birthday ill and Mrs. Scho—your nan wouldn’t let us see you so I thought, wait, what would normal people find depressing but Will would love? Reading and translating really old, really boring books!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The corner of Will’s lips quirk up. Joe’s right. He is a cheeky little sod but Will would not have him any other way. He is thankful to have him in his life. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Well, I’m glad I came to mind then,” Will says, placing his hand on his chest in fake sincerity.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s bright grin returns, “you’re such a bookworm I reckon you had the time of your life reading ‘em. What books did she even give you? Poetry?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Max’s laughter echoes in the quiet street. Will looks up to find Joe’s making a silly face at the younger boy. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He nods as he glances back at Tom, “Ovid and Baudelaire.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom squints, “are those people or are those the book titles? I can never tell.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“People,” Will replies with a soft smile, “in fact, they considered to be some of the greatest writers in history.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It is part of the reason Will was so reluctant to work on their translations. How could he, a boy of barely seventeen, hope to ever interpret the work of the greats for the masses. It was one thing to do it in his spare time where the only set of eyes were his but it is quite another to do it professionally.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">They turn onto the narrow, dirt path behind a row of terraced houses. It’s a short cut that takes them straight to a small stone bridge coated with moss and vines where the river runs underneath. Otherwise it’s a longer walk through the Square and the local park to get to their respective homes. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom whistles, “who’s your favourite then?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will opens to mouth, then snaps it shut and frowns as he realises no one has ever asked him that question, nor has he ever considered it himself. How odd. He quickly runs through the names and works of the hundreds of poets and writers’ in his mind but he may adore too many to single out a specific one. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Luckily, Will is saved from answering as Max and Joe reach the end of the dirt path and turn to face them. The stone bridge is just behind. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Chop, chop, you two,” Joe says, “some of us have jobs to get to. Mr. Gordon is looking for any reason to sack me after I accidentally lost half the papers last week.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“How did that happen?” Will asks when him and Tom have reached them.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Long story short,” Joe answers as the four boys cross the bridge, “the bloody wind took them and the snow ruined the ones I couldn’t pick up in time.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom laughs, “you should have seen him, Will, he was running around trying to get them all back. It was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, and this pillock,” Joe points to his younger brother, “offered no help.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom shakes his head, “and ruin the entertaining show you gave me?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe pushes Tom who stumbles and almost slips on the icy ground but Will catches him with an arm around his shoulders. He pulls Tom against him to ensure he doesn't fall over, when he glances down at Tom to check he’s fine it is to find Tom staring up at him with flushed, red cheeks and wide blue eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will says, “I’ve got you.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The flush on Tom’s cheeks spreads to the rest of his face as his mouth hangs open and he continues to stare at Will like he’s never seen him before. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will frowns, wondering if the cold has gotten to him. “Tom?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom blinks about a hundred times in one second before he sputters and pushes away from Will. In his hurry, he almost slips again but he reaches out and grabs bridge’s wooden railing. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I—I’m fine,” he says with a flushed face. “Thanks.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will watches him with confusion. He didn't think Tom was so easily embarrassed when only last month Killy pulled his pants down in the middle of courtyard and he didn't even blink. He simply pulled his back up and distracted everyone with some dancing. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom crouches down to collect some snow he quickly forms into a lumpy ball and he chucks it at Joe. Tom groans in annoyance when Joe ducks down in time and the snowball flies into the river below instead. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“One day, little brother!” Joe shouts as Tom stomps away and Max laughs with his arms wrapped around his stomach. </span>
</p><p class="p1">☾</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Max’s house is the last stop on their morning walks to school and it is the first stop on their way back home. The stone cottage is nestled at the end of Wick Lane surrounded by high hedges. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What are you doing?” Joe asks when Will starts following Max to his house. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Lauri gave me some books to translate,” he says as Max knocks on the door, “I’m giving them back to her.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe perks up then and jogs over to them as Tom hangs back with his hands in his trouser pockets. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“She did?” Joe says, “since when do you speak to her?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Since Tom told her I can help with translations,” Will says. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe glances back at his brother who smiles back at him like he knows a secret. Joe turns to face Will, he says, “does she—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The door opens to reveal Lauri standing on the other side. She pauses as her hazel-brown eyes, a shade lighter than Max’s, take in Will, Max and Joe on her doorstep and Tom standing in the street behind them. She is probably surprised because Will, Joe and Tom normally don’t hang around when dropping Max home. Her eyes land on Joe and she seems to straighten up ever so slightly you wouldn’t notice unless you were paying close attention.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Her smile is shy when she says, “um, hello.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Hello,” Joe repeats, his green eyes never leaving hers. His own smile spreads slowly across his face.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Lauri and Joe watch each other for a moment too long before Max pushes Lauri aside and rushes into his house, shouting that he needs the loo in French. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Lauri huffs and glances back at her younger cousin as he disappears behind a corner, “<em>ne courez pas autour de la maison, Max!</em>” <em>Don’t run in the house, Max! </em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">She chuckles as she turns back to the boys. Will shrugs off his leather book bag and takes out Lauri’s books, he bound them back in the same spindly rope but this time with two notebooks worth of translation drafts and notes attached.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“The, uh, stuff you wanted,” he says, clearing his throat, “I only did the sections you highlighted. I wasn’t quite sure which language you wanted with <em>The Flowers of Evil </em>but I did add annotations in Latin and English in case you wanted both or….” he chews the inside of his cheek, a habit Nan often admonishes him for, “…or either, I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Lauri looks at the books with awe and turns the same look on Will. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“This…this is marvellous,” Lauri says in that lilting French accent of hers. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Nan says she has a gentle voice like Will and that she could listen to ‘that lovely Frenchy talk all day long!’ Who knows, Nan might swap Will for Lauri to read her poetry on the evenings they spend sat around the fireplace.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>C’est pas vrai</em>,” Lauri continues, pulling out one of Will’s notebooks and flicking through it. <em>Unbelievable. </em>“And you did it so quickly!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will shrugs, “it’s nothing. I’m not a professional by any means but I gave it a go. I suppose that’s all one can do.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Merci beaucoup</em>,” Lauri smiles at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners. The passing wind sends a loose strand of blonde hair falling over her heart-shaped face. She blows it aside and says “I am working on…”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Wait, uh, what,” Joe starts, stepping forward, “do you…do you need any help with that?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Lauri opens her mouth to answer but Tom is already crossing the street and grabbing Joe by his arm. “You only speak English,” he says, dragging him away, “they don’t need your help, now, c’mon, I wanna go home and you have a paper round to get to.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, I gotta go but…see you soon, Lauri!” Joe shouts as Tom pulls him further down the street. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>À plus tard!</em>” Lauri smiles and waves at him.<em> See you later!</em> She turns back to Will, “please, come in."</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” Will says as Lauri steps aside to let him in. “I — I meant to ask, why do you need help translating Baudelaire? Your English is excellent.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Ah, because Cambridge would like it to be translated into Latin for archival purposes and while I am fluent in Latin, it is my weakest language,” she explains, shutting the door behind him, “and Tom said you are very talented in both French and Latin.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>March </b> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know,” Will says, chewing the inside of his cheek.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Will, <em>please,</em>” Joe stares at him with raised eyebrows. “Do you want me to beg? I’m not above begging.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom grins as his eyes skip between Will and Joe. “<em>Please</em> make him beg.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will knows it is serious if Joe has left his adoring group of friends in the courtyard to seek him out in the tiny, school library. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">When Will finally recovered from his fever and he returned to Rainford Hill, Tom had immediately checked he was well and a few days later asked Will if they could increase their French lessons to twice a week. Will has an inkling that Tom feels competitive about how quickly Max is picking up English. For the last month, they have been meeting in the school library on weekdays and the main library in the Square. He thought Tom would get bored of spending so much time with Will but he only seems excited by the prospect which only serves to confuse Will more. He doesn't question it. After all, you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe barged into the library a few minutes ago where he found Will in the middle of reiterating the rules of French pronunciation to Tom, especially the vowels because that is one of his weakest areas. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe sits in the opposite chair with a pleading look on his face as he tries to convince Will of his ‘foolproof’ plan to woo Lauri. Every time they drop Max off at his house, Joe lingers around to try and catch a sight of Lauri, Will and Tom have to wait in the street while he makes casual conversation with her. Lauri seems to enjoy it with the way she giggles and smiles whenever she speaks to him. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom looks at Will, his blue eyes bright with glee. He says, “if I say it in French will you make him beg?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe flicks Tom’s forehead, “shut up.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom sticks his tongue out at him in response and Joe turns back to Will with that pleading look. Will sighs. He understands now why Joe has half the school wrapped around his little finger. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe says, “it’s better if you ask her because it will look more casual but when we’re in the pub I'll make my move.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“At the pub? How romantic,” Tom smirks. A pause, then, “can I come?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Joe says. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom stares. “Why? And don’t say it’s because it’s—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Strictly sixteen and over,” Joe interrupts with a smug smile, “exactly. Y’know the drill, little brother.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom glares at him. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe turns to Will, “<em>please?</em>”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Fine,” Will grumbles, “I’m going to her house after school on Friday to go over some Ovid notes and I’ll ask her then.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe’s ‘foolproof’ plan to woo Lauri involves inviting her along to the local pub and having a ‘friendly drink-up’ to celebrate the start of Spring with a dozen or so of Joe’s other friends.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yes!” Joe shouts, standing up so quickly he knocks his chair back. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Miss Belt, the school librarian, harshly shushes them from her desk near the entrance doors. Joe winces, apologises and picks up the chair.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Schofield,” Joe says, placing his elbows on the table and leaning forward, “you are an absolute life saver, mate. I owe you one.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“It’s fine,” Will tells him because it is. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Tell her to get there for like three,” Joe says, “and then we’re going to Idun’s tree after — or Danecroft, I haven’t decided yet.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom frowns, “I wanna go Danecroft too.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe says, “look, we’ll go together next weekend, alright?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom smiles and nods, seeming satisfied. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe turns to Will, “thanks, mate!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He pats Will's shoulder hard before turning to ruffle Tom’s mop of curly hair and running out of the library when Tom tries to hit him. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom turns back to Will, “you should have said no.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Why? I don’t mind.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">If organising a weekend gathering as an excuse to spend time with Lauri is what makes Joe happy then so be it. Joe was the first person to welcome him and show him around Rainford when he moved here six months ago. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Joe gets a little…” Tom pauses, “carried away when he fancies someone.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I just—” Tom licks his lips and twirls around the pen between his fingers, “I just worry about him is all. Y’know how some people wear their hearts on their sleeves?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will nods.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“My brother gives it away without a second thought.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">☾</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will doesn't know how to organically bring up the pub when he reunites with Lauri that Friday. He flounders for most of the afternoon, wracking his brain for an opening as him and Lauri are working on Ovid’s <em>Amores. </em>They are sitting in the living room of the Baumers’ home, surrounded by piles of books and neverending notes. Max has gone down to London with his parents as their preferred tailor is there.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Ici,</em>” Will says, pointing to the second stanza of Book IX. <em>Here.</em> “You have to remember Ovid likes using chiasmus with regards to certain names and constructions.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Lauri nods along, “you’re right and in order to emulate perfectly this stanza in English the word order must just be as unusual and artful as it is in Latin. It will replicate the intrigue in his poetry since Ovid seems to relish in defying the conventions of typical elegiac word place—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Pub,” Will blurts out because he is an awkward idiot and he couldn't find a proper opening for it.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Lauri glances at him, “what?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I meant,” Will closes his eyes and opens them, “apparently it is tradition for people to go the local pub for a drink and dance at the start of spring. The children have arts and crafts in Jade Park to keep them busy. Me and Joe are going to <em>The Round Table</em> with a few others tomorrow, would —would you like to come?” He asks, pauses and adds, “it is…it’s going to be fun.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Joe would be smacking his forehead if he heard Will’s attempt to persuade Lauri to come and, honestly, they are more Joe’s friends than Will’s.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, really?” Lauri says, straightening up a little like she does when Joe is near. “Where?"</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“<em>The Round Table</em>,” he says, “it's the pub next to the statue of Henry VIII and then we might begoing to Danecroft or Idun’s tree after, the big cherry tree in the forest the village is quite taken by.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Ah</em>, I think Max mentioned it a few times. He said it is a….magic tree?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Kind of,” Will says. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He has gone to the tree with Joe, Tom and Max a few times. It’s beautiful and ancient and he still doesn’t understand how it can bloom all year. The first time he heard about it, about the cherry tree that never dies he had dismissed it as a local myth like how a gremlin lives in the old well in near the school but he feels transfixed by the tree and the Greek legend attached to it. He had spent a weekend in the library finding as many books on it as possible with Mrs. Hubert’s help. She had more than happy to fill him in the tree’s long history.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Legend says the tree is Idun’s private entrance to the Underworld,” he says, “on the last day of Spring, after long journey, Idun slept under the tree and her vibrant youth blessed it with eternal life. The Anglo-Saxons that lived in this area worshipped her greatly. I think the carvings in the seven stones around the three were meant to mark each sacrifice made to her.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Lauri grimaces, “human sacrifice?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will shakes his head, “no, I — I think they were sacrificing sheep. A lot of sheep bones were found a few hundred yards from the tree. Death for life. Blood for beauty.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I guess that explains why there are so many sheep in Rainford,” Lauri says in a breath of laughter. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will chuckles, “exactly.” He clears his throat, “uh, will you come tomorrow…then?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I do not wish to intrude on you and Joe’s time with your friends,” Lauri says. “I don’t really know them…”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t really know them either. We can sit in the corner and not really know them together.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Lauri giggles, then says, “<em>oui, </em>I will come. What time?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Three,” he says, “but Joe and I will come to pick you up tomorrow and we’ll go together.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Lauri smiles, “<em>parfé</em>.” <em>Perfect.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">☾</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>The Round Table</em> is loud and crowded. Will and Lauri manage to grab seats in the beer garden behind the pub with Joe and his other friends. About ten of them are sat around the large picnic table crowded with half-empty beer mugs and cigarettes. It is a clear, warm day in late March, perfect conditions for the village to celebrate the start of spring. Joe has captivated the table’s attention as he regales the tale of how the rugby team won the last half of the game with seconds to spare. Will and Lauri sit on the opposite side near the edge, the both of them engaged in their own private discussion on Ovid’s poetic style.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe got Will two pints of beer the second they stepped into the pub and demanded he drink up. Will has only drank one in the last two hours but he feels the alcohol buzzing through his veins and loosening his limbs. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Non, non</em>, think about it, Will,” Lauri says as she waves her lit cigarette in the air, “Ovid plays on words much more than other poets we have seen, giving them a sexual connotation more graphic than any other elegist.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Which words?” He asks, smiling as he sips his beer.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Lauri scoffs, “words like <em>opus</em> in three point fifteen, <em>inferior</em> in one point one, and <em>desultor</em> in one point three. Words that we typically think of as post-positive Ovid uses in grand poetic style, placing them in an unexpected order in his lines.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">This is incredibly refreshing. He hasn't had a conversation like this in months — not since leaving Eton.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will frowns, “he tends to be more explicit in his writings than the other elegists, don’t you think?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Lauri looks lovely under the mid-noon sun, she has styled her golden hair in bunched curls decorated with pearly beads rather high on her head. She looks like a Gibson Girl, wearing lace gloves and dressed in a high-neck, cream tea gown. She turned many heads upon walking in with him and Joe, none more than Joe himself. He stared at her like she had transformed into an archangel. He shoots her that exact look every few minutes as he jokes with his friends. He has only said a few words to her since they stepped into the pub. It is perplexing behaviour. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Because, unlike you, Will, he is not afraid to get graphic,” she says, taking a drag of her cigarette and exhaling it out, “it makes for a unique kind of poetry that has better flow and individuality than either Tibullus or Propertius and if we cannot replicate this is in our translations it is pointless.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What makes you think I’m afraid to get graphic?” Will asks, a little affronted by the observation but also curious at how quickly she figured it out.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Lauri laughs, “your face was red the whole time we went over your notes for<em> Les Fleurs du Mal.</em>” She pats his arm, “it was the most adorable thing I have ever seen.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will opens his mouth to defend himself when Joe appears out of nowhere and rests a hand on his shoulder. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Will,” Joe says. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will looks up at him. “Yes?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe’s eyes linger on Lauri for a moment before landing on Will. He nods to the thatched-roof pub in front of them, “do you fancy another beer, mate?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“No, I’m fine I still—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Need more? Yeah, me, too,” Joe says, grabbing Will by the arm and dragging him out of his seat. He glances back at Lauri, “be back in a mo!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Joe, what—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“We need to swap seats,” Joe says as he pulls Will into a cramped corner by the tall hedges, “I wanna chat to Lauri, you can take my seat and chat to Kara.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Who?” Will says. He cannot place a face to that name. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Kara Kilgour?” Joe says, frowning when Will shows no recognition. He points behind him to their table where Lauri sits and smokes her cigarette in peace as Joe’s other friends laugh and joke around. He points to a petite girl with red hair pulled up in a loose roll, she sits by Joe’s empty seat. “She’s one of Killy’s older sisters?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, yes,” Will says, recognising her now. “She sits next to me in Politics.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Although she never seems to be paying attention in class, always making imaginary doodles on her desk with her fingers or staring forlornly out of the window. She seems so mellow and softhearted in comparison to Killy, who was almost expelled for defacing the boys’ bathroom last week. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe slings an arm over Will’s shoulder and says, “she’s quite pretty isn’t she? She certainly thinks you’re handsome.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“She does?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, you should chat to her and I’ll chat to Lauri. It’s a win, win.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It's not a win, win. Will doesn't know how to talk to people in general let alone girls. Lauri doesn't count, any one who understands poetry like her is easy to talk to.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“You have not said more than two words to Lauri since we came in,” Will says, confused by Joe’s antics at this point, “why do you want to talk to her now?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Because I don’t want to look desperate mate,” Joe says, “there’s a game to be played here.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Why must there be a game?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t you get it yet, Will?” Joe leans in to whisper like he is revealing the last sublime secret of the world. “It’s all one great, big game.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will’s eyes narrow. The Blake brothers, he realises, have a special skill in confusing Will. Unable to decipher Joe’s meaning with the alcohol slowing down his thoughts, Will just nods and tells Joe he can take his seat and talk to Lauri. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">When they get back to the table, Will sits with Kara and Joe sits with Lauri. They seem to light up in each other’s presence. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Hello, Will,” Kara says with a shy smile when he sits down with his pint of beer. “I like your jumper.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will glances down at the latest, brightly coloured jumper Nan knitted for him. This one is a lighter and more suited to the warmer weather. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He looks back at her. “Oh, um, thank you.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe’s right. She is quite pretty. Will tries to return her smile but it feels clunky and forced. Growing up in an all-boys school and spending the majority of his time with his nose buried in a book has left him clueless about girls. Joe’s ease with them truly baffles him. He drinks more of his beer and hopes for liquid courage.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>May </b> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The approaching end of spring and the start of summer brings two things; cherry blossoms and Max’s birthday. The Blakes own and run their own cherry farm. A little past their small back garden is a cobblestone path that leads to acres and acres of cherry blossom trees. Will has caught glimpses of it every now and then when he visited the Blake brothers but he never stays long enough to take up Tom’s offer of a tour. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He goes over to the Blake’s house that day to work on the History essay with Joe due in a few days. Although Joe saw no point in it because school finishes next month because according to him they “won’t have any bloody need for Henry VIII and his neverending stream of wives in the summer holidays.” Mr. Geel overhead him and threatened to fail Joe and make him spend his summer in school. Joe’s attitude changed quickly and Will has been helping him craft his essay. He has the time since he wrote and finished his paper the day it was assigned. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe and Tom’s mother, who dislikes being called Mrs. Blake because it makes her feel like an old woman, opens the door when he reaches their small cottage covered in climbing vines. Myrtle has come to the door too, probably curious as to who it is.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Will,” she beams.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Hello, Elsie,” he says, “is Joe in?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">She has drilled into Will’s head enough times to call her Elsie and it’s finally stuck. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Elsie steps aside, shifting the large wash basket she holds up against her hip, “yeah, he’s in his room with Tom and Max.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” he says, strolling past her and pausing by the coat hanger to pat Myrtle’s head. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, and Will?” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will turns to her, “yes?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Tell Joe and Tom I want them in the orchard at noon sharp,” Elsie says, then she tilts her head to the side, “actually, we could use an extra pair of hands. Can you stay a little later to help as well?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t mind helping,” he says, “what do you want me to do?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“When the cherry trees bloom they cover the whole orchard in blossoms,” she tells him, “me and the boys, sometimes their granddad if he feels up to it, clear away the blossoms to get ready for harvesting. We’re normally done in time for supper, which you can stay and join us for. There’s a cherry pie in it for you.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe has mentioned they do this every May, a long standing tradition in their family. It sounds quite fun. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will smiles, “you don’t need to bribe me, Elsie, I’ll help.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“You’re a better person than my boys then because bribery or threats is the only thing that works with them two.” She says, walking into the kitchen. She pauses in the doorway and turns to him, “and will you tell Max, I’d like him to help too? Do mention the cherry pie on offer as that will entice him.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will nods and walks up the stairs. Joe and Tom’s shared bedroom is the first door on the right on the landing. He opens the door to find Max standing on the other side with a slingshot aimed at his face. Tom stands next to him with his hand out. The two boys have wrapped school ties around their heads as bandanas. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Halt!” Tom demands, “you shall not pass without wishing our good fellow Max here a happy birthday. He’s thirteen, which is a man in Jewish culture and as a man he deserves your respect.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Exactly,” Max throws Tom a smile. “I mean, I am not Jewish but the sentiment applies, no?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Where did you get that?” He asks, gesturing to Max’s slingshot.</span>
</p><p class="p6"><span class="s2">“He made it for me,” Max nods his head at Tom, “it’s my — </span> <span class="s1"><em>ich habe das wort vergessen — ah, </em>birthday present! I had one like this at home but I lost it when we left Vienna. This one is even better than the one I had.</span> <span class="s2">”</span></p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">If he wasn't being threatened Will would be impressed with Max’s English. He has made leaps and bounds with his command of the language since he had stared up at Will in shock almost a year ago when he heard Will could speak French.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Behind them, Joe lies on his bed with his arms folded under his head and a toothpick his mouth. He takes it out and says, “just say it Will, they’re bloody lunatics. Max almost took my eye out with that thing for not saying it quick enough.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Um, sure,” Will looks at Max who still has the slingshot aimed at him, “Happy — happy birthday, Max.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Max grins and lowers the slingshot. Tom puts his hand down, “you may enter.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Finally,” Joe says as Will walks over to him, “let’s get this bloody essay done.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will sits down on Joe’s bed, “your mum wants us in the orchard at noon.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Us?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“She recruited me and Max to help.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Brilliant,” Joe sits up against the headboard. ‘We’ll be done quicker and I’ll be eating cherry pie in no time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">☾</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will helps Joe finish his essay in time and they head into the back garden where Max and Joe are playing football. Joe and Tom’s grandfather sits in a rocking chair on the patio, watching them with a lit cigar in his mouth. Elsie comes out of the house in trousers and a loose shirt to Will’s surprise. He has never seen a woman dressed like that unless they were due to go horseback riding. He supposes very few, if any people in a working class village like Rainford own horses. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">She must see the surprise on his face because she laughs as she walks past him. “You think I can clean the orchard properly in a dress?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He blinks, “no, I…suppose not.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Elsie gives him an amused smile before she claps her hands to get Tom and Max’s attention. “Boys!” She shouts. They stop kicking the ball and turn to her, “let’s go!”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The four boys follow Elsie to the narrow wooden gate at the back and onto the cobblestone path lined with colourful bushes of lavender and hydrangeas until they reach a rolling orchard packed with beautiful, blossoming cherry trees. The air is sweet and warm and for an alarming second, Will thinks its snowing but it’s the white cherry blossoms raining around them, coating the whole orchard in white. He looks around in awe, wondering if this is the Garden of Eden. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Right, grab a basket,” Elsie says and points to the pile of baskets against one of the trees a few metres away, “and put all the cherry blossoms in them.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Warum</em>?” Max speaks up. He looks as awed by the orchard as Will. “If you leave them they will simply rot away won’t they?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“We use them to make potpourri,” Elsie replies, grabbing herself a basket, “and we package and sell them to many shops in London. Potpourri is all the rage there. They can’t get enough of it, I’m telling you! Now, c’mon. The sooner we begin, the sooner I can get you boys some lunch.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Max turns to Tom with a bright grin, white petals fall into his honey blond hair. He says, “first one to fill the most baskets has to give the loser a piggyback whenever they want.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom returns his bright grin. “Deal!”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">They each grab a basket and quickly start shovelling the blossoms into the basket. Will and Joe grab their own and follow suit. It takes the whole day to clear the orchard but time flies with Tom and Max running around trying to beat each other in their self-made competition and Joe telling him about his future plans to woo Lauri. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“She’s the one,” Joe says as they sit against one of the trees for a break. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The sun slides further and further down the horizon. Tom and Max are locked in a game of thumb wars a few trees away. Elsie brought them all freshly squeezed orange juice and bowls of sliced apples on a tray. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will munches on his slices and says, “the one for what?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Marriage,” Joe tells him, euphoria radiating out of him, “she’s the one I want to marry.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will smiles as warmth blooms in his chest. He is happy Joe has found love but more than anything he is happy to be here with his friends in this quaint village that seems to exist outside of the world. It is a strange feeling. He could get used to it.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>June</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The day he has been dreading for the last year has finally arrived. It arrives on a cloudy, gloomy day on the ninth of June and imbues a sombre mood into the Schofield household. Nan has him dress smartly in a clean, dark suit and striped bowtie and she hovers in the bathroom doorway to make sure Will styles his caramel brown hair is into a neat side part. It is an important day. He has to look presentable. Nan wears her best dress and her biggest, feathery hat. When they are both done and dressed, Nan pinches his cheek, tells him he looks handsome and they head out.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It’s a Tuesday but St. Christopher’s church offers daily half-hour masses on weekdays and the traditional full hour masses on Sundays. It’s a short walk to the church, around five minutes as they live close to the Square.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, good afternoon Father,” Nan says as they walk up the steps to the stone church. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Father Fairchild, a short and fat man in his sixties with white hair and a childhood obsession with trains, greets them in the doorway. “Mabel, Will!” He beams, “it’s a bit of a dreary day but yes, it is a good afternoon. Welcome!” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will should be at school today but Nan called them to say he had a special appointment, although she failed to mention the supposed appointment was with God. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>It’s your father’s day, </em>Nan had said when Will asked why he was missing school, <em>we should be with God to remember him.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will didn't kick up a fuss about it. Father was her only child and if this is what she needs to cope then he will be there for her. Nan attends mass every day, it’s been part of her routine since Grandpa died almost ten years ago. Will would go with her every day because he knows she likes the company but he has school. Although, he does attend mass with her and most of the village every Sunday. It brings her peace and it leaves him feeling closer to God. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Today is different. Today Will has no desire to attend church nor be close to God. A part of him worries God will see he feels no emotion, in fact, no grief for his father’s death at all. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Today doubles as Father’s birthday and the day he hung himself in his study. He didn’t leave a letter or even a little note to say goodbye but everyone knew why he had done it. <em>The Times </em>had told half of London about Father’s gambling habits and the loss of the Schofield fortune he had worked decades to build. He had squandered it all on expensive bets at the races and left them with nothing. It seems he couldn't take the shame and embarrassment from the article and ended it all.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Nan had gone to great lengths to ensure the reason for his death was hidden from the people in Rainford and whispered to Will to keep it to himself when she had gone to pick him up from Eton. Family affairs ought to be kept in the family. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“C’mon on, pumpkin,” Nan says, nudging him into the church. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">There are about half a dozen people inside. Nan has them sit at the front, always eager to be as close to Father Fairchild as possible. She may be his biggest fan. Mass passes quickly with Will paying little to no attention. He needs this day to be over already. He wants to go home, jump into bed and lose himself to ancient prose. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Nan had Father laid to rest in the graveyard behind the church. Father was born and raised in Rainford before he left for the bright lights of London, she thought it was fitting he returned home. Will approaches it with trepidation. Nan hands him the bouquet of lilies and carnations she picked from their back garden and Will sets them down before the headstone. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Nan sniffles as she stares down and clutches onto Will’s arm. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“He was a good man,” she says with tears in her eyes, “he just wanted to build something great for the family, something that would last forever.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will chews the inside of his cheek, she is too focused on the headstone to admonish him for it. He puts his hand over hers because he doesn't know how else to comfort her. He is rather useless sometimes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">☾</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Everyone favours Rainford Castle in the heart of the village but Will prefers Danecroft Castle, the abandoned monstrosity that sits atop a rocky hill. Will treks up it after they return from mass and he makes sure Nan has settled down for nap. Danecroft is beautiful in its own ruinous, harrowing way. He hopes no one is there as a lot of the older pupils like to come up here after school and mess around. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Sometimes, he swears he can feel the past bleeding through the decayed, mossy walls — that he can hear the monks that used it as a place of worship, that he can see the bored prince whom originally built it lounging in the great hall and demanding more food for his weary guests.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will walks through the ancient halls with a book in hand and trudges up the winding, stone stairwell to the castle’s only intact tower. It is a relatively small, circular room inside the tower with a trio of long windows with a stunning view of the whole village below. The surrounding forest, the grazing sheep on the rolling green hills, the tight-packed buildings in the Square, the grey houses spread out across the countryside. Will likes sit on the wide windowsill and reads. He opens up the book he brought along and indulges in Basho’s love for the natural world. Basho should wash away this mournful day.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">No one should find him up here either but someone does and he shouldn't be surprised that someone is Tom Blake. Tom seems just as surprised to see him. He freezes in the narrow doorway of the tower, dressed in the grey uniform of Rainford Hill and holding his book bag. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What — Will?” He says, glancing around, perhaps checking to see if Joe or his friends are here too. “You didn’t come to school…is this where you’ve been all day?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will checks his wristwatch. It just turned four. School finished half an hour ago. He counters Tom’s question with his own, “what are you doing here?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I — you’re not gonna tell Joe are you?” Tom asks. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe took him up to Danecroft for his fourteenth birthday and told Tom he couldn't come here alone. The castle is almost a thousand years old which means it is not the most stable building in the world. They ought to make it an historical landmark like Rainford Castle or it will not last another decade. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Will says, wanting to keep Tom’s trust in him, “but he’s right, you shouldn’t come here alone. It isn’t safe.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom steps further into the room, dropping the his book bag on the floor,“you’re here alone.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not, I’m here with Basho,” Will says, showing Tom the book’s flowery cover. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom smirks, “dead poets don’t count.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">"They are the only ones that should.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom keeps walking until he is standing by the window. He nudges Will’s leg with his own. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Move up,” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will scoots to the side and lets Tom sit on the window sill with him as he’s small enough to fit. He has grown taller in the last few months, he nearly reaches Will’s shoulder now. Tom leans back on the crumbling wall and lifting one leg up onto the window sill, he rests an elbow on his knee. He looks out the window, the wind ruffles his curly hair. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“You haven’t answered my question,” Will says, “what are you doing here? Does Joe know you’re here?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Honestly, you’re worse than my mum with all your questions,” Tom rolls his eyes and glances at Will. His eyes always appear impossibly blue no matter the lighting. “Joe dropped me off home and went to see Lauri,” he says, “he’s taking her to down to London to watch a play or somethin’ by some old guy called Softman or Sofa Man or—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Do you mean Sophocles?” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom snaps his fingers, “that’s it! Sophocles! Lauri really likes his plays. It was her birthday last week so Joe wanted to surprise her.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“And that led you here?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“No, I—” Tom glances away again and licks his lips, when he looks at Will this time a blush fans across his plump cheeks, “bloody hell, um, Max — Max sort of kissed me yesterday and I’ve…sort of been avoiding him?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will’s eyebrows rise. It…oddly makes sense if he thinks about it. Max is always with Tom, always following him around and trying his hardest to learn English to spend more time with Tom. He doesn’t know why he didn’t see it before but then, Will knows nothing about love. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Why have you been avoiding him?” Will asks.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom huffs, “because — because it’s awkward! He’s made it bloody awkward! We were playing Go Fish in my room after school yesterday, y’know, practicing our French and English like you said and he goes and kisses me.” He tugs a hand through his dark hair and sighs, “I don’t know what to say to him. I mean, does this mean he fancies me?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Do you fancy him?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What?” The blush returns. He says, “Who?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Max.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, um.” He shrugs, “I don’t know…he’s my best mate.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I thought Killy was your best mate,” he says, knowing the angry reaction it will get but wanting to see it anyway because it makes him laugh.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom glares at him, “Killy is <em>not</em> my best mate. Who is spreading this bloody rumour?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will laughs and he feels a little lighter for the first time all day.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“You and Joe are so annoying,” he says, then sighs once more, “I don’t…I don’t think I see him like that.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Then you should tell him,” Will says, “let him know you wouldn't like to risk your friendship. It probably took him a lot of courage to do that, the least you can do is let him know where he stands.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom rubs his face with both hands, “oh, bloody hell. I don’t want to deal with this.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“The truth always reveals itself, it’s better to do it when it’s in your control,” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, really?” Tom cocks an eyebrow, “so, why don’t you reveal why you missed school today and why you’re cooped up in here?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s questioning exposes just how tired he is. It seems a year of holding in this secret and dreading the anniversary of Father’s death has drained him of all resolve.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He shrugs, aiming for nonchalance but most likely failing. “It’s my father’s birthday today,” he says, “it’s also the anniversary of his death. I went to church with my grandmother and then we visited him in the graveyard.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He cannot bring himself to add <em>he hung himself with a rope in his study, my old governess found him.</em> The words have never left his mouth and his tongue couldn't form them if he tried and he has. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s eyes widen, “<em>oh</em>, I’m — I’m sorry, Will. I didn’t know.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“It’s fine, we weren’t close,” he says and they weren’t. Father had shipped him off to Eton the minute he turned twelve and he didn't contact him once. It was only gruff instructions to get in the car or move out of the way whenever he returned home for the holidays. “I had to leave Eton when he died since, well, he wasn’t around to pay the tuition fees any longer.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Again, he cannot bring himself to add <em>because he gambled our money away on horses and the shame was too much for him. </em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I wasn’t close to my father either,” Tom says, looking out the window, “I didn’t even know him. He died a week before I was born in a mining accident near Chelmsford. He saved half the miners lives, stayed behind to make sure everyone got out but the cave collapsed on him when he was only a few metres from the exit. He got a medal of valour from the mayor.” He looks at Will with a faint smile, “Mum named me after him. You’ll never guess what they wanted to call me before he died.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What?” He says.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s smile grows into a grin. “William.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Tu plaisantes</em>,” he replies. <em>You’re joking.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>C’est vrai!</em>” Tom insists. <em>It’s true! </em>“Ask Joe!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">They both start laughing. Will glances down at his book and Tom looks out of the window. The wind and the rustling leaves are the only sounds for a while. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Sometime passes before Will says, “a while ago you asked me who my favourite writer was. It took me a while to figure it out but I realise it’s — well,” one corner of his lips quirk up, “it’s William Blake.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom laughs, “<em>tu plaisantes.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>C’est vrai</em>,” Will smiles properly this time, “he wrote <em>Songs of Innocence and Experience</em> and that’s my favourite book of all time, ergo, he is my favourite writer.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It is partly because it was his mother’s favourite work and it makes him feel closer to her and partly because no other writer holds the same perpetual interest in reconsidering and reframing the assumptions of human thought and social behaviour like William Blake.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom nudges Will’s thigh with the tip of his scuffed brogues, “nah, I reckon you like him ‘cause you’re obsessed with me. I don’t blame you.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Of course,” Will offers him a lazy smile as he tilts his head back onto the wall, “who wouldn’t be?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“You’re spending too much time with Joe,” he says, his cheeks reddening again, “you’re almost as annoying as him now.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Almost?” He raises an eyebrow, “it’s a good thing school finishes this Friday then, isn’t it? I can spend my whole summer with him and reach his level. Solidarity is important.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom laughs, “idiot.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It will be his first full summer in Rainford. It will be the first time in a long time he has looked forward to being home for summer. It is a startling thought but not at all surprising that he thinks of Rainford as home now.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>July</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will likes to think he is a somewhat of a well-informed person. On the rare occasions Father deigned to talk to him, he drilled in the importance of keeping up with current affairs. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>Men of our calibre cannot afford to be ignorant of the world around them, </em>he would tell Will over breakfast as he flicked through the morning newspaper. <em>The lower classes don’t care for such things which is why we must be the gatekeepers.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will had been too intimidated to disagree, in truth, he still would be if Father were alive. If he had been more brave he would have told him the pursuit of knowledge and its distribution shouldn't be ransomed by the upper classes or any sect of people for that matter. It is why he admires Mayor Leslie’s goal to improve the quality of education given to the children of Rainford. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">However, education is something to worry about when school re-opens in September. It ended two weeks ago and Will intends to enjoy the break with full force. He sits in the sun-filled beer garden of the village pub with the <em>Rainford Review </em>in one hand and a pint of beer in the other. He is surrounded by Joe’s many friends but he only speaks to Lauri and Joe and sometimes Kara who sits opposite him. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The events that make the front page of the <em>Rainford Review </em>rarely make sense<em>. </em>Yesterday, the front page focused on a hedgehog with one foot Jonny Braddock’s aunt found in the park. Last week it was Mayor Leslie announcing he would be erecting a statue of his father in Jade Park, who had been the mayor before him. He had perished in the Titanic two years ago and Mayor Leslie thought it was fitting to honour his memory. This was one of the rare occasions the front page made sense. Today, the front page is more nonsensical than usual. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1"> <em>VILLAGE COUNCIL RUNS OUT OF TIME TO DISCUSS SHORTER MEETINGS<br/>
</em></span> <span class="s1"><em>Council Meeting Forced Councillors to Put Off Agenda Item. No. 6; A Proposal to Limit the Length of Meetings.</em> </span></p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will shakes his head and turns onto the next page. Rainford is rather peculiar. Council meetings running out of time makes the headlines but the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand, the heir to the Austria-Hungary throne, at the hands of a Serbian nationalist doesn't. In fact, the Archduke’s death is printed in the small International Affairs section in the right hand corner. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He sits straighter and glances up at Lauri, who is in the middle of a conversation with Kara about the summer she spent studying in Paris. Her whole family is Austro-Hungarian aren’t they? Max and Lauri still have plenty of family left living in Vienna.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He opens his mouth to tell her about the assassination, “Laur—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe slings an arm around Will’s shoulders and slumps against him. “Will! Put…put that newspaper down!” He shouts, an afternoon spent chugging down beer after beer has slurred his speech, “do you even know what day it is?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will says, “no, care to remind me for the umpteenth time in an hour?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It is July first and the first of July marks—</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“My eighteenth!” Joe proclaims and lifts up Will’s beer to down the remaining half in seconds. He wipes his hand with the back of his hand and burps. “And you know what that means?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe came to his house in the late morning with Lauri and Kara in tow declaring that it was his birthday and it was time for a drink-up at <em>The Round Table. </em>Lauri and Kara had been laughing as Joe drunkenly demanded Will come with them. The rest of their (really, Joe’s) friends would meet them on the way to the pub and then they would go to Danecroft. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Lauri had slapped a hand over Joe’s mouth when Joe started singing and Will had to quickly put on his shoes and push Joe away from his house before he woke Nan up and damned them all. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will holds back a laugh. “What does it mean, Joe?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“It means—” Joe snatches the newspaper from Will’s hands and throws it behind them. Will turns in time to see it land in the bushes. Joe grips Will’s chin with two fingers and makes Will face him, “no boring newspapers! You’re only allowed to do two things today, William.” He raises one finger, “Drink as many beers as me,” he raises three fingers, “and have as much fun as me. Do you under—understand, <em>mon amis?</em>” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Je comprends que tu es très ivre et que tu devrais probablement arrêter de boire</em>,” he says with a faint smirk. <em>I understand that you are very drunk and that you should probably stop drinking.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Joe grins. “That’s the spirit!”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>August</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will’s easy, splendid summer turns on its axis only five days into the last month of the season. It morphs into a grim tone. A tone that promises to transform anything familiar into something strange, something none of them have ever seen before. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will picks up a newspaper on his way out of Rainford Library with Tom. They have just completed two hours worth of French lessons, doing practice drills on conditional tenses. The sun is high in the clear, blue sky as they walk through the Square. Rainford is beautiful in the summer, everything blooms green with all the colours under the rainbow. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will frowns at the ominous headline as Tom locks his fingers behind his head and praises the wonderful, warm weather. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BRITAIN DECLARES WAR ON GERMANY<br/>
England Expects That Every Man Will Do His Duty</em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Oi, you even listening?” Tom asks, glancing up at Will. “I don’t know why you read the village newspaper. There’s never anything interesting,” he snorts, “one time Granddad found his hat in a tree and that made the front page, half the village was asking him about it—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“We’re going to war,” Will says, unable to process what he’s reading. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“War?” Tom stares,“what? When?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will passes him the newspaper as they cross the road to enter Jade Park. War. It fills him with a sense of trepidation. This cannot be good.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” Tom pouts and hands him back the paper without a second glance. “I thought you meant we’re going to play a war game like — oh, there’s Max. <em>Max!</em>”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will sighs as Tom runs to Max sitting on the park bench by the heart-shaped pond with Killy, throwing crumbs of bread to the eager ducks below. Although, Killy seems to be throwing rocks into the pond. Will hopes he's not trying to hit the ducks. Max smiles when he sees Tom, standing up to punch Tom’s shoulder and run away when Tom tries to return it. Killy laughs as Tom chases Max through the park. Either the kiss was a mistake and Max apologised or Tom told Max he only saw him as a friend and Max took the rejection on the chin.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Despite the war looming over them all, it gladdens him to see the kiss hasn't changed Tom and Max’s friendship. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will glances back down at the newspaper. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BRITAIN DECLARES WAR ON GERMANY </em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">If Tom's not worried about it, perhaps he shouldn't either. Will should enjoy the last month of his summer and let the men who have called for such a war worry about it. He frowns when he looks up and sees Tom tackle Max onto the grass and rub his knuckles into Max’s hair. Killy runs over to them jumps on top. Max and Tom both grunt in unison. Then again, Tom has a short attention span and he is only fourteen, revelling in the prime of boyhood. A war in a far off land means little to him. Perhaps, Joe will understand the gravitas of the news. </span>
</p><p class="p8">☾</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Dear Joe,</em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I hope this letter finds you well. I am not surprised you joined the war the second you could but I am surprised you told no one, not me, not your mother, not even Tom. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Did you think I would try to stop you? I would not. Your life is your own and your choices are yours to make. I only would have told you to think carefully before enlisting as war is not something to be taken lightly. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Both our grandfathers fought in the Crimean War. I have noticed your grandfather speaks of those days with pride and some strange sense of nostalgia. He speaks of brotherhood and national pride. The Crimean War took my grandfather’s left leg, it tore out a part of him and although he returned home that part of him never did. He never spoke of it either but sometimes, if you looked closely, you could see the bloody battles play out in his eyes. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I would have relayed this to you should you have told me you wanted to enlist, not to discourage but inform. I would not wish that trauma on my worst enemy and especially not a dear friend like yourself.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>It should come as no surprise to you that the whole village views you as a hero for enlisting so quickly to fight for our country. People stop your brother and mother in the street to praise you. </em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"><em>Tom seems to bask in it and he talks about you non-stop to anyone who will listen. His brave, big brother off to fight in Germans and save our country. Your grandfather shares Tom’s pride but your mother only worries for you. I do not blame her, no mother wants their son regularly risking death in the midst of battle. It is only two weeks in and everybody seems optimistic it will end by Christmas, I can only hope it does and you will be able to return home, whole and well. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Yours faithfully,<br/>
Will</em> </span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p8">
  <span class="s1"> <b>October</b> </span>
</p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1">"Will," Lauri says one rainy morning in Mrs. Baumer’s study.</span>
</p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1">He looks up from the translated verse he had been re-writing. </span>
</p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1">“Do you think the war will end by Christmas?” Lauri says.</span>
</p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1">His mouth opens and closes like a fish as he searches for the answers to take that forlorn look off her face. Sorrow paints Lauri into a tragedy and it hurts his heart to watch. </span>
</p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1">He never likes to lie. He always chooses the truth and in that instance, the truth is that he doesn't know. Everyone says the war should be done and dusted by Christmas but Will isn’t sure about that. This is not the Anglo-Zanzibar War. This is something none of them have ever seen before. A war of such great mass and scale it pulls more and more people into its path as it drags on. He worries it will consume the world soon. </span>
</p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1">“I’m…not sure,” he tells her in his gentlest voice.</span>
</p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1">“Do you…do you think Joe will be back by then?” She bites her lip, “do you think he would hate me upon his return?”</span>
</p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1">“Lauri, Joe could never hate you, he’s been smitten since the moment he saw you,” he pauses, unsure if he should even say it but he decides to at the last second, “he — he wants to marry you. You’re very important to him.”</span>
</p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1">He hopes that will cheered her up a little but then she breaks down crying and Will wonders why he is even allowed near people. She sobs into her hands. Will stares, frozen for a second before he rummages inside his jacket pocket and gives her the handkerchief he keeps in there.</span>
</p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Merci, oh, je suis — je suis navré, </em>” she says, wiping away her tears with it. <em>I am so sorry. </em></span>
</p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1"><em>“</em>It’s okay—”</span>
</p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1">She starts crying again and Will wants to throw himself out of the huge windows before them. She looks at him with her big, hazel-brown eyes filled with tears. </span>
</p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1">“But it won’t be okay, will it? And it is my fault, <em>j’ai honte</em>,” she sniffles. <em>I’m ashamed.</em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“What are you talking about?” He says, resting a hand on her arm at some attempt to comfort her.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“The day after Britain joined the war,” she begins, glancing away, “when he took me to Idun’s tree he proposed…but I said no because, I mean, Germany had just declared war on France the day before and they were already marching their troops into Belgium. You see, I have an older sisters who lives in Antwerp with her husband and children and I was so worried about them I told Joe I could not think about marriage in a time like this.” She looks at him with tears streaming down her cheeks, “I told him I was not sure and….and he didn't take it well. I went to his house to talk to him the next morning, to — to explain but then his mother said he had run off. He joined the war.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“You don’t know if that was his reason for joining,” Will tells her, “and even if it was, you couldn't have foreseen such a reaction.”</span>
</p><p class="p9"><span class="s2">“<em>Êt</em></span> <span class="s1"><em>es-vous sûr?</em>” Lauri sniffs. <em>Are you sure?</em></span></p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1"><em>“</em>Yes, he cares about you,” he says, “but…Lauri, I think the more important question here is, do you want to marry him?”</span>
</p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1">Vaguely, Will wonders when he became the person people went to for advice. He is clueless about life as any of them. </span>
</p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Oui, je l’aime tellement,”</em> she breathes out and sniffs once again. <em>Yes, I love him so much. </em></span>
</p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1">One corner of Will’s mouth lifts up, “then you better tell him, don’t you think?”</span>
</p><p class="p9">
  <span class="s1">Her soft smile reminds him of the rising sun after a bleak night. </span>
</p><p class="p4"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>December</b> </span>
</p><p class="p10">
  <span class="s1"> <em>British Ex. Forces</em></span>
</p><p class="p10">
  <span class="s1"><em><br/>
14/12/14</em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Dear Will, </em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I have only just received the letter you sent back in August. It's been a difficult couple of months and I feel as if I've lived a thousand lifetimes in those months. I've written and re-written this about a dozen times as I know you’re disappointed I ran off and enlisted without a word to you or anyone else but duty called! It will call you when you turn eighteen next month and we can be brothers in arms.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Or rather that is what I tell anyone who asks but you have come to be my dearest friend and as you like to say, the truth always reveals itself and it is better to reveal it when it's in your control and there is no better control than the pen I am using to write this letter.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Do you remember that hot day in May when we spent the whole day clearing the orchard of blossoms and I told you I wanted to marry Lauri? Those weren’t the words of a daydreaming man. I asked her to marry me under Idun’s tree a few days after the war was declared. She said no and I couldn't bear it. In the face of heartbreak, I thought war to be less painful. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Let me tell you something. It isn’t. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"><em>That first battle at the Marne and every battle since I have never seen carnage like this and when I close my eyes I see nothing but carnage. I am writing this 150yd from Fritz and the moon is bright, so we bend and walk quietly onto the road running diagonally across the front into the Bosche line.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>We started away just after dawn from our camp and I think it was about an hour later that we encountered the enemy. They were on the opposite side of the valley and as we came over the brow of the hill they opened on us with rifle fire and shrapnel from about 900 yards. We lost three officers and about 100 men were killed and wounded in that half hour. I went from Lance Corporal to Sergeant in that half hour. I don’t want any more days like that one. Thankfully, we drove the Bosche back and held them there for eight days. I cannot tell you all I should like to, as I don’t have the time and it would never reach you.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>But what I can tell you before the Bosche return with their damned great bombs to wipe us out is that I received Lauri’s letter the same time as yours and she accepted my proposal. I thought I had gone mad from the living in the trenches too long but it was real! She wants to be my wife if you can believe it!</em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I don’t know when I’ll return home for leave but I hope it’s soon as I have a beautiful woman to marry. Ihave missed Tom’s birthday and it’s Christmas next week, a horrid time to be away from home, made worse by the fact this bloody war is nowhere close to ending but Lauri wants to marry me and that’s all I need to keep me going. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>The next time we will see each other will be at my wedding and as my best man, I expect you there. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Your friend,<br/>
Joe</em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>P.S. I can’t eat anymore bully beef. Tell my mum to sneak in a slice of cherry pie in her next angry letter to me.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>P.P.S. I hear stories of men being shamed into joining the war but I ask that you don’t. Please stay and look after Tom for me. I miss him dearly and I trust you to keep him on the straight and narrow.</em> </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 1915 - Tom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tom has a rather inconvenient revelation about Will. Will ponders his future. Lauri prepares to wed Joe. Despite everyone's hopes, the war drags on.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"> </p><p class="p4">                                                   ☼                ☼        ☼                 ☼                         </p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>1     9     1     5</b></span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>January  </b> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Rainford without Joe is strange to say the least. Tom wakes up some mornings and turns in his bed, expecting to find Joe still snoozing or buttoning up his shirt as he’s late for his paper round (again) but the bed is empty and the room is silent and he feels Joe’s absence more than ever in those moments. Mum ranted for the first few days when she saw the letter Joe had left on the kitchen table then she cried for a week straight and Tom’s heart broke at the sight. Anything he said only seemed to make her more upset and Granddad told him to let her process the news in her own time. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It seems she’s still processing it as she walks around with the same look of worry even four months after Joe left. Sometimes, Tom wonders if he’s missing something, some great piece of information that should make him pace and frown with worry like Mum but then Granddad reminds him that Joe is a hero for going out and protecting his country.In turn, Tom likes to remind Mum that Joe will be home soon for leave and Mum will give him that sad smile and tell him to pass her the flour. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom smiles at the thought of Joe’s return as he makes his way through the farmers’ market. He has asked Joe when he’s coming back home in every letter he has sent him and Joe always answers with uncertainty. Tom vibrates with excitement whenever he thinks of it. He can already see himself running to hug him at the train station and he can picture the crookedness of Joe’s answering grin to its exact degree. He can’t wait to hear all the amazing stories about life as a soldier. He must have so many. If they are anything like Granddad’s stories about his days in the Crimean War, Tom will play them out with Max and Killy. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Until then, it’s simply a waiting game and although Tom isn’t the most patient person in the world there is nothing that can be done about it. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom wraps his scarf tighter around his neck and walks past a stall packed with every kind of lettuce and cabbage under the sun — or the snow really, since it has been snowing all week. This morning, Tom woke up to a sock thrown onto his face as Mum told him to get up and get down to the market. The shopping list she quickly wrote down is short. A small bag of cornstarch, a dozen lemons, four courgettes, and — Tom freezes — he forgot the leeks.. He groans, shifts up the large paper bags stuffed with vegetables in his arms to stop them from falling and marches over to the nearest stall. He can’t see where he’s going all too well due to the heavy bags so he’s not surprised when he bumps into someone. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Bloody hell, pardon, I'm sorry,” the person sputters, turning around to face Tom, “sorry, are you — oh, hello, Tom.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom looks up, smiling immediately when he sees it’s none other than William Schofield dressed in a great big winter coat with flecks of snow in his caramel brown hair and cheeks bitten red from the cold. Will returns his smile with his own version, ever so faint and ever so soft and Tom’s heart skips a beat. It’s a little confusing but there’s something about Will that makes him feel odd. Perhaps odd isn’t the right word, fluttery may be more accurate, like the ground is wobbly and each step is sure to make him trip. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Hey, Will,” Tom says, still smiling up at him. He wants to brush the snow from Will’s hair or at least take off his own woolly hat and plop it over Will’s head. It’s quite distracting. Winter on William Schofield is quite distracting.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Hello,” Will glances behind Tom, probably looking for his mother as she often joins him when the farmers’ market opens every Sunday. His breath comes out in puffs of white as he speaks, “What are you doing here?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom gestures to the bags in his arms with his chin, “isn’t it obvious?” He grins, “Mum’s been teaching me the art of bakery for the last few weeks. We’re making a vegetable tart today with leeks, goat’s cheese and lemons.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The week before Christmas, Mum had been crying in the kitchen when Tom had asked her to teach him how to make her famous cherry pies. He hoped it would distract her from the war and it had but it had surprised him how much he enjoyed baking.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>Sweetheart, baking isn’t about perfection, </em>Mum had said when Tom’s pie had come out of the oven burnt, <em>it’s about dealing with disappointment. Accept that things may go wrong and keep going on.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Often, he feels like he's good at very little. He doesn't have Will’s talent for languages or Joe’s charm but baking made sense to him. He likes how often he surprises himself with the things he makes and more than anything he likes the delight on someone’s face when they try his food.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I promised Mum I’d make dinner tonight, but I forgot a few things,” Tom says. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“How — how is your mother?” Will asks. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom shrugs, “better. She was a bit angry, furious actually, she smashed up a few plates when she found out Joe had enlisted but she’s better now. I think the news of Joe and Lauri’s engagement lifted up her spirits. Mum, Lauri and Mrs. Baumer have been busy planning the wedding. It’s a good distraction for her I think, gives her something to be excited about.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I’m glad she’s feeling better.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom shrugs again. “you should come round tonight. I reckon it’ll blow your socks off mate. Best vegetable tart you’ll ever have.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will says, “I can’t, I have to finish some translations for Lauri. I was going to the library to grab a few books.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” Tom says, stamping the disappointment down, “yeah, you should do that—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">One of the paper bags rip and the carrots and lemons tumble onto the snow-covered street. Tom curses as Will quickly crouches down and picks them all up in a few seconds. He gets a spare bag from one of the stalls and puts them in. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Look, here,” Will says as he takes a bag from Tom, leaving him with only one. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Thanks,” Tom says with a faint laugh. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will shrugs, “it’s fine, come on, I’ll help you get them home.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">They start walking towards the statue of the fat man by <em>The Round Table</em> when Tom remembers he still has to buy leeks. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I'll wait,” Will nods his head to the market behind them. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He waits for Tom as he grabs a couple of leeks, pays for them, stuffs them in the paper bag and jogs to catch up with Will. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Prochaine fois,” </em>Will says as they cross the road to walk up the steep hill that leads away from the Square.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Next time?” Tom replies. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will says, “next time you bake something, let me know, I would like to try to it. I think it will be quite tasty. If Joe has your grandfather’s charm, I think you have your mother’s cooking skills.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom glances away as his cheeks burning. He blushes too often these days.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t say that,” Tom mumbles, kicking at loose branch on the ground, “you might try my food and die.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He makes the mistake of glancing up at Will then, more snow has fallen into his hair and it now flops over his forehead in caramel waves and, actually, he has quite a nice mouth — Tom looks away, his gaze flitting up to the naked branches of the trees that line the winding street. Joe running off to enlist must have set something off in him. Maybe he’s losing his mind?</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“So,” he clears his throat and only looks at Will when his heart has calmed down, “are we still meeting on Saturday?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will nods, “yes, did you finish your notes?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Almost,” Tom says, “I’ll be done by Saturday.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Since the war erupted seven months ago, everything has felt tense and he’s thankful Will has maintained their French lessons despite how busy he is with schoolwork and translations. Tom clings to the normalcy of it all. A few days after Tom’s fifteenth birthday, Will said his French has improved drastically and he was ready to read French literature. Tom is on his second book or rather play, <em>Tartuffe, </em>about a creepy man called Tartuffe who tries to trick this religious family. Tom is half-way through, both confused and enthralled by the antics. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Why am I reading<em>Tartuffe</em> again?” Tom asks as they cross the street again, walking up the steep hill lined with grey cottages. “It’s weird.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Because it exposes you to conversational French,” Will tells him, “it should improve your reading and writing skills and honestly, French literature does not get any better than <em>Tartuffe</em>. Study it well, I’m going to test you on it.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom groans, “you’re a bloody masochist.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“If masochism is the best way for you to become fluent in French, then so be it.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom bites his lip to stop himself from smiling. He doesn’t add that if masochism is the best way to spend time with Will, then so be it.</span>
</p><p class="p2">☼</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It's going to be Will’s birthday in two weeks. The first day of February will mark his eighteenth and his eighteenth means Will is old enough to enlist and go off to some far off field in France and fight. Tom has only just adjusted to Joe’s constant absence, if Will disappears too he will feel more lost than ever in Rainford. Yeah, he would still have Killy (even though he’s a little nuts) and Max, things aren’t awkward anymore since Max admitted the kiss was a joke just to freak him out. But here’s the thing, the thought of Killy and Max’s absence doesn’t bring a rising of wave panic like it does with Will.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He knows fighting in the war is important, protecting your country and <em>blah, blah, blah</em> but the war already has his brother, can’t it let him keep Will? Better yet, can’t it end already and return Joe to them? </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom doesn’t have much — if any — money to buy Will a worthwhile present (which would definitely be some old book) so he decides to bake him one instead. He thought about making him the leek and goat’s cheese tart he baked last week (which turned out to be delicious) but it’s not fun enough for a birthday.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">They are playing football in Max’s back garden, Tom’s head isn’t really in the game as his mind runs through every possible idea for a present when he sees the ball flying at him in his periphery. Tom ducks just in time, it misses his face by an inch. He spins and glares at Max standing by the open kitchen door. The moment Tom saw the snow in the garden had thawed out, he ran over to Max’s house and asked him to play.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Are you mental?” He asks, throwing his hands in the air, “that nearly knocked me out.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“No, but you are stupid,” Max snaps back. Sometimes Tom misses the days Max could barely string a sentence together, “you are not paying attention.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom rubs a hand down his face, “right, sorry, I’m just…it’s Will’s birthday soon and — what?” He says when Max rolls his eyes. It usually means Max has a pretty unfavourable comment sitting at the tip of his tongue. “What is it?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Mother says if I have nothing nice to say I should say nothing at all,” Max grumbles, kicking at the grass,.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“No, you just say it in German,” Tom says. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Why do you care about Will’s birthday so much?” He glances away with a grimace, “he certainly does not. <em>Tu es obsédé.</em>”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom glares at him again, “I’m not obsessed with him. He’s my friend. It’s just — it’s his birthday soon and I want to get him a good present. I got you something on your birthday didn't I?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Max doesn’t look convinced, he stares at Tom for a moment too long with furrowed eyebrows before he shrugs, “Lauri says the simplest answer is often the correct one.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“And what’s the simplest answer?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“A cake.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s eyebrows rise. “Of course!” He snaps his fingers, “why didn’t I think of that?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Max shrugs once more, “because you are an idiot?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oh yeah? Let’s have another match,” Tom says as he walks over to shed to pick up the football. He turns back to Max, spinning the ball atop his fingers, “and then we’ll see who the idiot is.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Ja, du bist es.” </em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Nous avons convenu que vous ne pouvez parler que le français ou l’anglais,</em>” Tom says, dropping the ball onto the grass and rolling it under his boot. <em>We agreed that you can only speak French or English. </em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Oui, oui, botter le ballon,</em>” Max replies as spreads his arms apart. <em>Yes, yes, kick the ball.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom wins the match and Max chases him around the garden for a good hour, threatening to strangle him before Mrs. Baumer calls them in for lunch. </span>
</p><p class="p1">☼</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom spends the next week pondering ideas for the kind of cake he should make. It has to be the greatest cake Will has ever had. He’s a posh lad, isn’t he? He must have fancy cakes all the time. Tom is so determined for it to be perfect that he runs after Will’s grandmother when he spotsher leaving the cafe, <em>Green Brew. </em>He must have caught her in a good mood as she doesn’t throw him her usual glare whenever she sees him.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Anything with toffee,” Mrs. Schofield tells him as Tom follows her into the post office, “he’s had a weakness for toffee since he was a little boy.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom spends the whole day before Will’s eighteenth in the kitchen trying to perfect the recipe. Mum offers to help him but Tom declines, he needs to make this on his own. Max tries to lure him out to play some footy in the garden or go climb Idun’s tree but Tom declines him too. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I will go ask Killy,” Max says, pouting in the doorway as Tom whisks the eggs, sugar and syrup together in a bowl. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom glances at the instructions Mum wrote down for him before she left for her shift in the post office. She works there during the winter months as business for their cherry farm usually dies down around this time. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Go on then,” Tom says.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">A moment passes before Max lets out a string of curses in French and marches over to him. He grabs a spare apron off one of the chairs and wraps it around his waist. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Que voulez-vous que je fasse</em>?” Max asks as he comes to stand beside Tom. <em>What do you want me to do?</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Faire la glaçage,” </em>Tom says, smiling to himself a little. <em>Make the icing. </em>He points to the small dining table behind them where the ingredients sit, “<em>les mélanger tous ensemble.” Mix them all together.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>“</em>Yes, master,” Max says. He walks over to the dining table and pauses just as he grabs the large bowl, “you do know there are other people in the world? Will Schofield is not the only one.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s cheeks heat up, he turns away so Max can’t see his face. “I’m very aware there are other people in the world, I just want to do something nice.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Behind him, Max snorts and says, “<em>klar, sag dir das immer wieder.</em>”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom ignores his little comment and keeps whisking. He has no idea what it means but he doubts Max is praising is cooking skills.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>February</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom is grinning as he walks to Will’s house a few days later. Will turns eighteen today and he plans on making it a brilliant day for him. Mum assured him his cake was great and he had to slap Max’s hand away numerous times to stop him from trying to steal a slice. It took Tom (mostly Tom) and Max most of the day to finish the cake as their first two attempts were disasters. Max walked out on the third attempt and left Tom to finish the cake on his own. He asked Max if he wanted to join him in bringing the cake to Will but he shook his head and made some (most likely) rude comments in German.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom carries the box as he walks up the stone path to Will’s house at the edge of the village. With a stone facade wrapped in greenery and mullion windows, it sits on a low hill, surrounded by tall trees that stretch out to an open field that blooms with vivid wildflowers in the spring and summer months. After Mayor Leslie’s sprawling estate behind Rainford Castle, Will has the biggest home in the village. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>It’s not my house, </em>Will would say when Joe commented on its extravagance, <em>it’s my grandmother’s. </em>It has sixteen acres of land, an open barn and a paddock somewhere behind the lavish back garden, two bathrooms and five bedrooms which confused Tom since Will’s grandparents only had one son. Then, he overhead Mum telling one of her friends that Mrs. Schofield had wanted lots of children but then the Crimean War broke out and God had only seen fit to bless with her one. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mum says Mrs. Schofield wants to pass the house onto Will so he can raise his family there with as many children as he wants. His patience and willingness to help anyone makes Tom think Will would be a good husband and an even better father.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom comes up to the house and makes sure to knock carefully on the heavy mahogany door and waits. Four years ago, Mrs. Schofield lost her priceless broach in Jade Park and Tom came to her house to return it, he had thought he knocked on the door at a normal volume but the way Mrs. Schofield yanked the door open and ranted at him for ‘banging too loudly on my poor door’ you would have thought he tried to bring all of England to her house for a riot. Madwoman. She probably won’t let him come in and if she doesn’t he’ll ask her to give Will the cake.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The door opens and Tom straightens, expecting Mrs. Schofield and her unimpressed stare but to his pleasant surprise, it’s Will standing on the other side. He must have just woken up as he’s still dressed in his pyjamas and his hair is messier than usual, sticking up at all angles. He’s used to seeing Will in the drab, grey uniform of Rainford Hill or those woolly jumpers his grandmother loves to knit for him so it’s a bit of shock to see him sleepy and dressed in loose, brightly patterned pyjamas. Tom bites his lip. It’s an endearing look.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will lets out a yawn and says, “Tom, what—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Wake up, sleepy head!” Tom says, shoving the box against Will’s chest unceremoniously. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Confusion plays across Will’s face as he takes the box. His fingers brush over Tom’s and Tom quickly pulls his hands back and shoves them in his coat pockets, ignoring the tingly warmth that Will’s accidental touch left. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What — what’s going on?” Will asks, glancing at Tom and down at the box wrapped in a bow.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom smirks, “it’s your birthday, isn’t it?” He spreads his arm out wide, “happy birthday!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Realisation slowly dawns on Will’s face as he stares at Tom. A few moments pass before he says, “right, yes, completely forgot…” he glances down at the box again, “is this a present?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom nods, “yeah, I, uh, I made it. I’ve been baking more and more these days I thought I’d make you something.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will is quiet again, watching Tom with the same curious look he wears when he comes across a Latin verse that eludes translation. It makes him nervous for some reason. It knots his stomach in a hundred loops. Tom isn’t sure what Will is staring at but he better hurry because it’s started to snow again and he can feel his face heating up from the intensity of Will’s gaze. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Are you going to stare at me all day or are you going to let me in?” He says, becoming impatient and red-faced, “it’s freezing out here, mate.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will blinks and moves aside then, “right, sorry, come in.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom grumbles a <em>thank you</em> and steps inside, sighing as the warmth of the house envelops him. They are in the small entrance hall between two doors, the mahogany front door behind him that Will has just shut and the door that is half glass and half wood that leads to the main lobby.Tom kicks off his boots and hangs his coat on the hooks nailed into the wall, leaving him in his trousers, shirt and suspenders.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will pushes the half-glass door open and leads him down the hallway and into the plush, open living room. The smell of burnt wood lingers in the air from the fireplace with faint notes of strawberries and tea. It makes Tom wonder what his house must smell like. Max said it smelt tobacco and leather in the colder months and freshly baked cherry pies in the warmer months. He’ll take that. Max’s house smells light, zesty and fruity. On the rare occasions Tom goes to Killy’s house, it always smells like something that shouldn’t be burning is burning.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Where’s your nan?” Tom asks as he circles the sofa and sits down on the plump armchair. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will places the box on the low coffee table and sits down on the sofa. He yawns again and says, “in bed, she’s not feeling well.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Is she going to be okay?” Tom asks.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will waves a hand, “Yes, yes, it’s just her hip acting up again. She’s usually up and gossiping within a few days.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom laughs, “good to know…” He leans forward in the armchair, “did you just wake up? It’s almost noon. I didn’t peg you for a night owl.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will tugs a hand through his hair, making it even messier than before. “I was up all night finishing off some Ovid translations, the deadline is tomorrow and I’m still only half-way done—” he glances at the box, “what is this?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, um,” Tom leans back, feeling nervous all of a sudden, “uh, open it.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will throws him a confused glance before he leans forward and undoes the ribbon on the box. Tom bites his lip, his pulse quickening as Will pulls off the lid and looks inside. Will’s eyebrows rise and he looks at Tom. Tom really hopes he’s not blushing right now but he can feel the tips of ears burning. Bloody hell, what’s wrong with him?</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He gives Will his best grin and spreads his arms wide, “happy birthday!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will blinks, glances down at the cake and back at Tom. “You...got this?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom nods.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will blinks again, “…for me?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s eyebrows knit together. “Uh, yeah? It’s your birthday present?” He wrings his hands together as Will watches him with that curious look again, “do — do you like it?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Did you make this?” Will asks.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">This is turning into a game of twenty-one questions. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah,” Tom says, standing up and walking between the sofa and armchair to head into the open doorway behind them that leads into the kitchen. He rummages through the cupboards until he finds the plates, he takes three, some cutlery and walks back into the living room.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Let’s eat!” He beams down at Will before he pushes the cardboard walls of the box down to reveal the sticky toffee sponge cake he spent hours trying to perfect it. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He’s still not completely happy with it but Mum insisted it was perfect and whenever his mother smiles at him she can convince him of almost anything. Max’s attempt at icing was, quite frankly, terrible. It took Tom two more attempts to get to the icing to a golden shade of brown and to get it to drizzle down the edge of the cake like that. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He leans down and cuts into the cake and slides a slice onto a saucer for Will. He passes it to him along with a fork and stands back up. The nerves return in the form of butterflies swooping in his stomach as Will digs his fork into the cake and pops it into his mouth. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom doesn’t realise he’s wringing his hands again until Will looks up at him and says, “is this toffee?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, um, your nan told me you like toffee best so…” he nibbles on his lower lip, “do you like it?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will takes another bite and offers Tom a lovely smile that sets the butterflies off in his stomach. “It’s perfect.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The hours of labour and frustration in the kitchen are suddenly worth it. Tom beams. “Happy birthday, Will!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Tom,” Will looks at him then.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will looks unsure for a moment, biting on the inside of his cheek before he sets the saucer and fork on the table.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Will?” Tom says as Will stands up and walks around the table.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will leans down, wraps his arms around Tom and pulls Tom flush against him. It takes Tom a belated second to realise that Will<em> is hugging him. </em>It catches him by surprise because, well, Will isn’t the most affectionate person. He’s a little awkward and introverted as he prefers to keep to himself and if Tom thinks back, the most affection Will has shown is the few times he has patted Tom’s shoulder or back.The hug sends Tom’s heart beating a hundred times faster for two reasons.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">One, Will smells good. A warm, woody, creamy scent of dark spices and vanilla. He always smells good but this close it has Tom’s insides feeling wobbly, like they have turned to jelly.</span>
</p><p class="p2"><span class="s1">Two</span> <span class="s1">, Will's hair tickles Tom's cheek as he whispers in his ear in a deep voice still gravelly from sleep, “Thank you, Tom.” Ever so lightly, his lips graze the shell of Tom’s ear and Tom forgets how to breathe.</span></p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will pulls back, smiling before he returns to the sofa and continues eating the cake. Tom doesn’t move, feeling stiff and flustered from Will’s unexpected hug. He’s not sure how long he stands there, wide-eyed and unmoving, as Will finishes his slice of cake but it must be a while because Will throws him a concerned look. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He says. “Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will’s gentle voice snaps him out of his stupor. He shakes his head, returning Will’s concern with an easy grin. “I—I’m fine,” he says, waving a hand dismissively as he goes to sit down next to Will on the sofa.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will shuffles to the side and Tom sits down, he opens his mouth to ask him if he wants another slice when he notices a chunk of icing stuck at the corner of Will’s mouth. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Will,” Tom smirks and gestures to the corner of his own mouth, “you’ve got some icing here.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will swipes it off with his thumb and dips his thumb into his mouth. Tom looks away, red cheeks and his stomach knotting itself into a mess. He leans forward and starts cutting into the cake. “Do — do you want some more?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will stands up, “please.” He walks around the sofa and pushes past the closed kitchen door by the fireplace. “I’m making tea, would you like some?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, thanks, mate,” Tom shouts back as he slides a piece onto Will’s plate and another on his. Tom looks out at the huge bay window to the side. It’s started snowing again, coating the front garden in a faint sheen of white. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will comes back carrying a flowery teapot anda pair of mugs on a tray. He sets it down on the coffee table for Tom. He starts making their teas, Tom is about to remind him he likes two sugars in his when Will slips in two sugars without being told. Tom smiles and scoops up a bite of cake. It’s peaceful for a moment. The wind sends the branches of the great beech tree rattling against the bay windows. The teaspoon clink, clinks against the cup as Will stirs it. The sweetness of the toffee cake melts in his mouth. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Ici</em>,” Will says, sliding a mug over to Tom before grabbing his own and sitting down next to him. <em>Here.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Merci</em>,” Tom says as he sets the plate down and picks up the mug. He blows the steam off and takes a sip. Tom lets Will drink some of his tea before he turns to him and says, “so, you’re eighteen now…”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will looks at him, “right..”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom sets the mug down, “you’re eighteen now, you can enlist…are you going to?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I…” Will chews on the inside of his cheek, a habit Tom is finding increasingly charming, “I—I don’t know. Nan doesn’t want me to. She thinks I’ll end up like my grandpa. She said his body might have returned but his mind died somewhere in Crimea.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“My grandad came back from Crimea,” Tom says. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, but did you know him before the war?” Will asks,“you should ask your mum if she knew him before war. It changes people.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom looks out at the falling snow in the front garden, “do you think — do you think if Joe comes back he’ll be different?” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know, Tom,” Will sighs as he slides his mug onto the table. “I hope not but not all change is bad.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom looks at Will. He has leant forward with his elbows settled on his knees and his gaze locked on his clasped hands. His expression is one of deep thought.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t think you should,” Tom says. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will startles, as if remembering Tom is in the room. He looks at him, “what?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I said I don’t think you should enlist,” Tom says, trying to keep his voice and heart steady. “I think—” he clears his throat and forces himself to keep speaking, “I think you should stay. Joe is doing a pretty good job of it, I reckon it’ll be over soon and he’ll be home before you even have to leave.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What makes you think it’ll be over soon?” Will asks and it’s just another reason Tom likes being around Will. He never makes Tom feel stupid for the jokes he makes or outlandish things he does. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Granddad said,” Tom replies with a shrug, “he said the Germans don’t stand a chance.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will makes a noncommittal noise and goes back to staring at his hands. Tom has the sudden urge to reach out and bury his fingers in Will’s mop of wavy, caramel brown hair. He bets it’s silky to touch and it smells faintly of vanilla like Will’s neck. Will looks at him and Tom quickly looks away, embarrassed at being caught staring. He shoots up, pacing by the table because he needs something to do before he buries his fingers in Will’s hair.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will looks worried, “Tom?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I just—” Tom stops pacing to stare at the fireplace still packed with last night’s burnt wood. He curls his hands into fists at his side as the words come spewing out, “I just want you to stay in Rainford with me,” he says, quickly adding, “and — and your nan.” He spins to face Will, “and Lauri and Max and hell, even Killy. I think you should stay. Rainford is boring but it’s better than the frontline.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Tom, it’s okay,” Will slumps back on the sofa, he lifts his foot and rests it on his thigh. “I’m staying.” He smiles, “I promised Joe I’d keep you out of trouble, didn’t I?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom grins, delighted at the prospect of Will staying in Rainford indefinitely. “Shut up,” he laughs as he walks to sit next to him on the sofa, “I’m an angel. Oh!” An idea springs to mind as he bounces up and down on the sofa, “oh, oh! Let’s make snow angels!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will looks like he’s about to object so Tom grabs his hand, leaps off the sofa and drags him out of the living room and down the hallway to the back garden. “It’ll be fun, c’mon!”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>April</b> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Dear Tom, </em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>How are things going with you now? I expect like the rest of us you will be glad when the better weather sets in for there is no doubt about it, it has been rough lately. Since I last wrote to you we have shifted to another part of the line and it is a warm shop, for both sides must have all guns they can find and it is nothing but one long duel all day and every day but thank goodness it gives over a bit a night so that I can get on with their work. You see of a night the flashes of the guns can be seen so plainly that is why they don't fire a lot then. Just on our right our people retook some trenches we had lost, oh what a rough time the poor sods had, snow and mud as much as you like and they had to lay in it for two days and grub could not be got to them. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I expect there have been a few more from Paddington called up by now, it seems if the government mean to have all the men they want and if they can’t get them one way they will another, and it certainly looks as if they will be wanted for out here. It worries me. I don’t want Will to be dragged out here and I’m sure you don’t either. He belongs in Rainford with his beloved poets and I expect you to be fluent in French when I return home in August. I know it’s far away but at least I’m coming back. I can’t to see you, to see everyone. I can’t wait to marry Lauri. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I meant to ask in my last letter, has Myrtle had any babies?Mum mentioned Mayor Leslie’s dog was sniffing around her and they disappeared into the bushes for a while. I reckon she wants babies off Myrtle more than she does off me. Killy’s mum told her St. Bernard puppies fetch for a fair amount and she’s had pound signs in her eyes ever since.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I see by the papers that the air raids have been busy in England again. It’s times like this I’m glad Rainford is too far in the countryside for anyone to bother us. You know, we have the taubes over our hospital nearly every day or night and I can tell you we got some starts at times. The nearest we have to them since I have been here is just one yard from the main door, at 12.30 it blew in two pairs of double doors and shattered on end of the building to bits but not a great deal of damage to life which after all is the main thing. The arrangements we work in is five or six days up the line and four or five down if you are lucky. Of course at times these arrangements go to pot when there is an attack and we get a warm time and I should like to enlarge on these things but of course you understand I can’t. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Give my best to everyone. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Your favourite brother,<br/>
Joe</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>P.S. Do not touch anything on my side of our bedroom. I’ll know if you have!</em> </span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>May</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“There,” Tom says as he dumps the last wicker basket brimming with cherry blossoms next to Mum’s deck chair. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It’s that time of the year again, where they spend hours, sometimes days clearing the orchard free of fallen blossoms and collecting them for the potpourri packages they sell down in London. It’s the first time since Joe went to visit their cousins up in Newcastle almost five years ago they have done the clean up without him. It feels even stranger than he thought it would. Although, he is thankful Will, Max and Lauri volunteered (or rather, bribed with free cherry pies by Mum) to help, it doesn’t feel as fun without Joe here to Tom tease about being to slow. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mum slips a paper bookmark into the copy of <em>Vilette</em> she has been reading as they all worked to clear the orchard and looks at the dozens of blossom filled baskets around her. Max stands beside him, draining his glass of the orange juice Mum brought for their break. Nearby, Will sits against one of the trees, shaded from the hot midday sun, reading some old latin book as Lauri snoozes on his shoulder, her own book forgotten in her lap. They are almost finished,they have been in the orchard since early morning and it is almost noon now. There is still more to clear near the back but that will take only an hour or two tomorrow. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mum casts a glance around at the baskets, casually inspecting them for any faults before she looks up at Tom and Max.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Okay, you can go,” she says. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom turns to Max. They cheer and high-five each other. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>But—”</em> Mum says, raising a finger.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom sighs. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“—I want you back by supper, if you’re muddy you’re washing and drying those clothes yourself.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Okay,” Tom says, a little surprised at how reasonable the condition was. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“And <em>you,</em>” she jabs her finger at Max, who finishes off his glass of orange juice and wipes his hand with the back of his mouth. “Look after him, will you? I don’t want him getting hurt.” She points at Tom, giving him the same stern look, “and <em>you—” </em>she nods her head at Max, “look after him. I don’t want either of you coming back with broken legs or faces.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Mum, we’re not going to war,” Tom says with a roll of his eyes, “it’s just the rugby tryouts. You didn’t give Joe this much hassle when he went.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He’s been waiting two years to go to tryouts since Mum wouldn’t let him go until he was fifteen, the same age as Joe when he went.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mum’s hand drops and that melancholy look settles over her face whenever Joe or the war is mentioned. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Internally, Tom curses and Max jabs in the ribs with his elbow, muttering, “<em>bon joué</em>.” <em>Well done.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom throws him a glare before he sighs and leans down to hug Mum. Joe ran off to enlist nearly a year ago now and it still haunts her, while the rest of the village celebrated the breakout of the war she had sunk to her knees that night and wept for her eldest son. Will says it’s natural for any mother to worry about her children. Tom supposes he’s right. Elsie Blake is the biggest worrier of them all. She only started letting Tom walk home alone without waiting for Will a month ago. He still waits for Will of course but that’s not the point. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mum sniffs against his shoulder and rubs his back as she returns his hug. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry, Mum,” Tom says in her ear, “it’ll be fine, I’ll be back in time for supper.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">She’s smiling when he pulls back to glance down at her. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I know, pet.” She says, her Geordie roots coming through. She hasn’t called him pet since Joe left. He didn’t realise he would miss it so much. She pats his cheek, stands up and turns to face Will and Lauri snoozing under one of the cherry trees. She cups her hands around her mouth and shouts, “Will!” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He startles awake but Lauri remains asleep on his shoulder. Joe said she’s a heavy sleeper. Will rubs his eyes and looks over at them. “Wha— <em>yes</em>?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mum clasps her hands together, “Will, darling, could you please escort the boys to—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Escort?” Tom and Max say in unison. Tom frowns and says, “Mum, c’mon, I’m <em>fifteen,</em> Max is fourteen, we don’t—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah and Max only turned fourteen yesterday,” Mum says, throwing them a quick glance before she turns back to Will. “Will, could you please escort the boys to rugby tryouts at Rainford Hill? Cheer ‘em on, keep ‘em out of trouble. The tryouts can get a bit rowdy.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom opens his mouth to object to that but then he remembers what happened last year. A fight broke out when Jonny Braddock’s older brothers didn’t make the cut and Joe had to break up the fight but ended up with a black eye. Everyone in Rainford takes rugby pretty seriously. Half the village turns up for the tryouts, people hoping that someone in their family will achieve the coveted spot on the Rainford Ravens. Joe had the spotlight for three years, he brought the village countless regional wins and three national trophies. Since he has been at war, the village has been waiting for the spring tryouts to see who might take Joe’s spot. No one can, of course, Joseph Blake is one of a kind but Tom can give it a go, right? He is Joe’s brother after all. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Max sets the empty cup down next to Mum’s deck chair. He folds his arms over his stomach, “Will has better things to do than—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Will</em>?” Mum prompts. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will nods, “yes, I can take them if you want.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Max mutters, what are most likely, curses in German while Tom tries to squash his growing panic. Normally, he doesn’t mind acting foolish in front of everyone because he doesn’t care what they think but Will isn’t anyone. He’s — he’s….He’s <em>Will</em>, okay? It’s different. Damn it. It’s not like he plans on actually getting on the rugby team, he’s doing it for a laugh and if he does, well that’s just great isn’t it but — Will being there changes things. He doesn’t want to look like an idiot in front of him. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Why doesn’t Lauri take us?” Tom asks. He doesn’t mind looking like an idiot in front of Lauri. “She’s not doing anything.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Not doing anything?” Mum says, turning to face him with her hands on her hips, “did you forget she’s engaged to your brother and she has a wedding to plan?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>Oh.</em> Tom resists the urge to roll his eyes again. It’s all Mum talks about and as annoying as it can be, he’s glad she has something to distract from the fact her eldest son is off fighting. Anytime she thinks about it, Tom can tell she’s close to tears. The wedding is a double blessing. Mum isn’t <em>as </em>sad about Joe and Joe is returning in August marry Lauri. All Tom knows about his role in the wedding is that he is the ring-bearer. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“We’re planning the wedding while you’re off getting beat up on a field,” Mum says, "I don’t know why this village loves that violent sport so much.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Rainford and Tom’s school, Rainford Hill, only has one sports team and it is the rugby team. Rainford goes mad for rugby which Tom has never really understood as he prefers football but that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy watching the games. Of course, the games aren’t the same without Joe. Nothing is the same without Joe. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He should probably be offended that Joe chose Will over him for best man considering <em>Tom is his brother </em>but then Will walks around in those jumpers his nan knits for him or he takes Tom to Danecroft Castle whenever he asks and Tom thinks, <em>oh, right, Will really is the best man. </em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“We must leave,” Max glances at his wristwatch, “the tryouts begin in twenty minutes.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Will!” Tom calls, “let’s go.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will nudges Lauri awake, who yawns and takes her head of Will’s shoulder. Will mumbles something, Lauri nods and Will stands up. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“And stay out of trouble,” Mum reminds him, pointing a finger at Tom again.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, okay,” he says, following Max as he walks over to the stone path that leads into their back garden. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I’m serious!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom huffs, “I know! We won’t get in any trouble!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">☼</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1">They do.</span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>It goes like this: </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The tryouts are always held in the huge sports field behind the school gym. Some people set up their chairs and blankets at the edge of the field, drinking and cheering as the tryouts go on. Will sits in the shade again, under a big oak tree with a few dozen others, reading that old latin book. He seems to be enjoying it, every once in a while his lips quirk up like he didn’t expect whatever happened in the book to happen but he probably already knew because he rereads every book like three times — not that Tom’s watching Will. He’s not. He’s focused on having a bit of fun at the tryouts with Max and, hey, maybe make it on the team. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom and Max stand in line in the middle of the field with the other thirty team hopefuls to practice their kicking. Matty Kissinger is at the front, he takes a rugby ball from Mr. Reichelmann, the school P.E teacher and coach of the Rainford Ravens,walks a few feet away and faces the tall goal post. His kick is powerful and sends the ball up high. People clap and cheer. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Singes</em>,” Max scoffs behind him. <em>Monkeys. </em>“<em>Ces gens sont faciles à divertir comme des singes.” These people are easy to entertain like monkeys.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom snickers, trying to hold in his laugh because this is a Serious Tryout. “Max, <em>tais-toi,</em>” he says. <em>Max, be quiet.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Max chuckles and shoves him, Tom stumbles forward and bumps into Roger Dixon in front of him. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom starts, “oh, sorry—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Watch where you’re fucking going you little shit,” Roger shoves him back and he stumbles into Max. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Oh, bloody hell, Roger Dixon is here? The boy’s a nutter. Crazier than Killy. He would not have come if he knew Dixon was here. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t touch him,” Max glares at Roger, holding Tom’s arms to stop him from falling over. Tom scrambles to straighten himself. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Don’t touch him!</em>” Roger mocks Max’s accent, “what the hell are you gonna do about—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Max pushes past Tom to punch Roger in the nose. Tom and the rest of the boys gasp. Roger reels back, covering his nose as he swears at Max. His nose is bleeding when he pulls his hands away. To Tom’s surprise, Roger’s mouth parts in an unnerving smile before he punches Max in the face.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Max!” Tom shouts as he rushes to check on him. He cups Max’s face and grazes his thumb over the bruise forming on Max’s cheek. “Bloody hell, are you okay?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Je vais bien</em>,” he grunts out before pushing Tom behind him and turning to Roger. <em>I’m fine. </em>He spits blood onto the grass. Calmly, he says, “<em>je vais le tuer</em>.” <em>I’m going to kill him.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>“N'ose-tu pas!’ </em>Tom hisses. <em>Don’t you dare! </em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“You’re the little German aren’t you?” Roger says, stepping forward. “What are you bloody doing in England, <em>eh</em>? Why aren’t you back in that hellhole helping your fellow huns kill our lads—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I am <em>Austrian!</em>” Max snaps as he lands a hard punch on Roger’s jaw. Roger grunts and stumbles onto the grass. Max grits his teeth and leaps onto Roger, straddling his waist and pulling his fist back to land another punch. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>It becomes worse like this:</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">One of Roger’s friends, a chubby boy in the year above, tries to tackle Max off so Tom jumps onto his back to stop him. More of Roger’s friends and other boys jump into fight, crowding around them and it turns into a brawl within seconds. Tom fights off two boys at once, kicking and punching when he can and taking a searing, sharp pain in his knee when someone jumps on his leg. He screams, his vision blackens and the next thing he knows he’s waking in someone’s lap with a gentle voice calling his name. He gasps when he opens his eyes and sees Will hovering over him with a panicked look. He passes out again and when he wakes up he is being carried on someone’s back. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Huh</em>?” He mumbles, looking up at the clear sky and passing houses and trees. Will is the one carrying him on his back, Tom’s arms hang over Will’s shoulders. Max stomps on a few steps ahead of them, head down, his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. “Will?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Hi, Tom,” Will says, all gentle and warm as Tom shifts against his back. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Will, what…how long have you been carrying me?” He tries to wiggle free but that searing pain pierces through his leg again. “<em>Ah!</em> Ah, shit, what—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Tom, stop moving you’ll hurt yourself,” Will says. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What are you—” He gasps when he looks down at his leg and sees how swollen his foot is, the ankle is mottled with purple and dark purple bruising. “Oh, my God! What the hell happened to my foot?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Max spins around then, walking backwards as he spreads his arms apart. His bottom lip is busted and bruises litter his face. He says, “one of Roger Dixon’s friends broke your ankle in the fight at tryouts, we got kicked out and we’re banned from ever going to tryouts again! Now we’re heading back to yours to have your mother and my cousin shout at us.” He turns back around and throws his arms up in the air, “<em>es wird Spaß machen!</em>” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom closes his eyes as the memory of the fight floods back to him. They got into a fight with Roger Dixon, or rather, Max did and to stop him from being beat up by another guy, Tom jumped in. He opens his mouth and winces at the sharp pain. He holds onto Will with one arm and touches his split lip with two fingers, frowning when it comes back with blood. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Great,” Tom mumbles, then tenses when Max’s words finally register. “Wait, we’re going back to my house?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Of course,” Will says as they walk up to the stone bridge. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What?” Tom stares at Will’s profile with wide eyes,“no, we can’t, Roger’s mates didn’t finish the job but Mum will, she’ll kill me!” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">They cross the stone bridge. Will shakes his head, the motion sends his wavy, light brown hair fluttering in Tom’s face and Tom is hit with the scent of tea tree and peppermint. It has Tom burying his nose in Will’s hair without thinking and it is as silky as he imagined. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“…better if we go to your mum’s—” Will freezes, “what are you doing?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom opens his eyes, not realising he had closed them. Will has paused half-way across the bridge and he’s glancing back at Tom with his eyebrows knitted together in confusion, Max is still walking away, muttering to himself in German. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom pretends to pull something out of Will’s hair and throw it away. He sputters, feeling hot all over from being so close to Will, “um, there was a bug. It’s — it’s gone now.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, right…thanks,” Will says and continues crossing the bridge, “as I was saying, it’s better if we go to your mum’s. She used to be a nurse, didn’t she? Before she married your dad.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah but she’ll kill me!” Tom protests, “what about your nan? Can’t she sort my leg out?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“No, she will only call your mum and tell her you broke your ankle,” Will says as they walk down a dirt path lined with tall, swaying grass and bright yellow buttercup bushes, “and I don’t think she will happy about my nan delivering her such news, do you?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“No.” Tom groans and drops his forehead onto Will’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>It becomes even worse like this: </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mum’s face is red and tight with anger as she lectures Tom on hooliganism and how he’s never going to be on that team if she has anything to do with it. He can hear Lauri giving Max the same lecture in French in the hallway. Tom’s dreams of replacing Joe as the star player on the Rainford Ravens are dashed within seconds. Will sits in Granddad’s armchair in the corner, awkwardly watching the whole ordeal.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“…and you’re bloody grounded!” Mum shouts at him as he lays on the sofa with his swollen foot propped up on a pillow and covered by a wet, cold cloth. “You’re not leaving this house for anything other than school for the next month!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom refrains from mentioning that his broken ankle will makes it hard for him to go anywhere anyway. Contrary to popular belief, he does know when to keep his mouth shut.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Except Mum continues on her rant, “you better hope your ankle heals in time for your brother’s wedding or we’re finding another ring-bearer.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What?” Tom sits up, “that’s not fair!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“You’re right it isn’t,” Mum says, folding her arms over her chest, “maybe you should have thought of that before you went off fighting like a bloody hooligan!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>It reaches catastrophic proportions like this: </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will has knelt down next to him on the sofa to tend to the cuts and bruises on Tom’s face which means he is distressingly close to him right now and Tom is having a little trouble breathing. Will cups Tom’s jaw with his large, warm hand and with his other hand, he presses the clump of ice wrapped in a wet cloth against Tom’s bruised cheek. Tom can’t help but stare, his cheeks red, heart drumming hard, mouth parted as his gaze flickers across Will’s features. He swallows. Will is quite handsome, isn’t he? In an old-fashioned kind of way, like the noble princes in the fairy tales Mum used to read to him before bed.</span>
</p><p class="p5">
  <span class="s1">“What’s wrong?” Will asks in that gentle voice Tom has come to favour more than anything. He takes his hand off Tom’s jaw and touches his own cheek. “Is there something on my face?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“No— no, there isn’t,” Tom jolts slightly in his seat. He purses his lips and takes the ice wrapped cloth from Will’s hand and keeps it on his cheek. He looks over at his swollen foot. It’s still hurts butnot as badly as before thanks to the ice Mum had Max bring from the butcher’s. “I’m fine, just…thinking is all.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Wait,” Will says, taking a hold of Tom’s chin with his thumb and forefinger so Tom is looking at him again. Will’s too close, the scent of the tea tree and peppermint oil he uses to wash his hair mixes with his woodsy cologne (Tom spotted it on Will’s bedside table a while ago) to make Tom’s heart beat even faster. <em>Oh, God. </em>His whole face must be flaming red.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What?” Tom says, trying to sound calm and definitely failing. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“One second, you’ve got a bit of dirt on your…” Will licks his thumb, sweeps it across Tom’s other cheek and Tom’s breath hitches in his throat. Will offers him a quick smile before standing up and stretching his arms. He glances down at Tom , “are you okay?” He leans down and presses the back of his hand to Tom’s forehead, “you’re burning up—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will’s hand is pushed off his forehead by Max who seems to have appeared out of nowhere. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Hör auf ihn so sehr zu berühren,</em>” Max says with a sharp glare aimed at Will. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will stands back up, “what?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Anglais ou français, Max, tu te souviens?”</em> Tom tells him. <em>English or french, Max, remember?</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“He’s fine, you don’t need to…” Max huffs and glances down at Tom. “You’re fine, aren’t you?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Apart from the bust lip and the painful, broken ankle…” Tom says, half-relieved and half-disappointed Will’s attention is no longer focused on him, “…I’m fine.” He grins, “fine and dandy!”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>July</b> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Dear Joe,</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"><span class="s1"> <em>Happy birthday! We’re all really excited to see you next month, especially Mum and Lauri! They have been running around like headless chickens trying to organise the wedding.</em> </span> <em>I’m sorry, I meant to write this letter a few weeks ago so it would reach you in time for your birthday but it looks like you will get it late. How does it feel to be nineteen? You’ll be twenty next year. You’re an old man now, doing old man things like going to war and getting married. Mum’s baked a whole cherry pie and she’s shipped it down to you in France, you should have got it by now.</em></p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I bet Mum’s already told you but I broke my ankle at the rugby tryouts in May. It wasn’t my fault. Roger Dixon’s a nutter. Max shoved me into Roger Dixon and Roger Dixon pushed me back and then Max punched him in the face for it. I tried to stop it but I ended up fighting off a bunch of Roger’s mates at once. Someone jumped on my leg and my broke ankle. Mum weren’t too pleased about it. Anyway, the doctor put my foot in a cast. I can’t take it off for a good two months because bones tell an eternity to heal apparently. I’ve had it on for a month and you wouldn’t believe how much this thing itches, Joe! I want to gnaw my own foot off sometimes.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I’ve been grounded for the last month and a half. It was only supposed to be until the end of June but Mum caught me trying to sneak out to see Killy and Max and she added two more weeks. It’s not so bad. I’ve had Myrtle to keep me company and Will moved our French lessons to my bedroom. Max was also grounded by his mother when she found out he had started the fight at the tryouts. We’ve been writing each other letters to keep in contact as Will was kind enough to volunteer as our postman. I get why you chose him as your best man. There is no one better than William Schofield. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Speaking of your best man, he’s officially finished school. They had a big assembly in mid-June (that I missed because of my ankle) to send off the final year pupils and some of the lads who have enlisted. I asked him what he plans to do now he’s free from Rainford Hill and he said he had no clue. Whatever he chooses to do he’ll be brilliant at it, don’t you think? After Granddad, he’s the cleverest chap I know.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Best,<br/>
Tom</em> </span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1"> <em>P.S. Can you bring a souvenir from France? When Killy’s older brother came back for his leave in March he got Killy a miniature Eiffel Tower and he won’t stop bragging about it. It has to better than Killy’s. I want to wipe that smug smile off his face.</em> </span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>August</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Myrtle barks at Tom as he grabs his clutches and pushes himself up off the sofa. It’s been ten minutes since Lauri went into the kitchen to make Tom some tea. He wonders what’s taking so long.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I’m okay, M,” he says and leads down to pat her head. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">She’s been quite worried about him, sniffing at his leg and following him around ever since he broke his ankle. She barks again and trots after Tom as he limps into the hallway. He finds Mum weeping in the kitchen with Lauri hugging her and rubbing her back. Granddad sits by the small dining table and stares forlornly at the both of them as he fiddles with an envelope in his hand.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“What’s going on?” Tom asks as he hobbles further into the kitchen. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Lauri glances at Granddad, “Henry, could you please…”</span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1">Granddad sighs and looks up at Tom. He frowns, “Joe isn’t coming back.”</span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1">Tom stiffens, “what?”</span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1">“Here,” Granddad says, standing up with a grunt and walking over to him to hand him the envelope.</span>
</p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1">Tom frowns as he opens the envelope and pulls out the letter, apprehension coiling like a snake in his stomach. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Dear Mum,</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I’m afraid my letter to you will be short and disappointing as I’m required somewhere else immediately. My leave has been cancelled. I won’t be able to return home and I don’t know when I will be able to. I can’t say much about why, only that every man is needed at the moment, and they would redact my explanation or simply burn the letter if I did. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Tell Tom, I’m sorry and that I miss him dearly.I will bring him a souvenir a hundred times better than anything Killy has on my return.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Tell Granddad, I quite enjoyed the last book he sent me and I would like him to send another. It feels like he is with me when I read it.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Tell Lauri, I love her and I’m trying my best to come back to her but it’s hard. It’s the hardest thing I have ever done. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Tell Will, I miss him too and I cannot wait to go to the Round Table for a chat and lots of drinking. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I love you all. I miss you all. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Your favourite son,<br/>
Joe</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>P.S. Thank you for the cherry pie you sent last month. It was delicious. I shared it with some of my men on my birthday and they said it was the best pie they had ever tasted. It boosted their morale right up! </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Oh</em>,” Tom says, glancing up at Granddad who has sat back down. “No wedding then?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Lauri looks at him with tear-stained cheeks and a pursed mouth. She holds onto Mum as Mum cries into her shoulder. “There will be a wedding,” she says, “just later, whenever Joe returns.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom glances back at the letter, reading over his brother’s regretful words. Seeing Joe again was the only thing he was looking forward to this year and now it’s not happening, Tom feels like he is lost at sea with no compass and a darkening storm threatening to collapse his ship and drown him. He shakes his head free of such morbid thoughts. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“He’ll come back,” he tells them with a bright smile. “He’ll come back and we’ll throw the best wedding this village has ever seen.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Exactement</em>,” Lauri smiles too, although hers is shaky. <em>Exactly</em>. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>October</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom turns the newspaper onto the next page — <em>yesterday, the Germans attempted to recapture much of the remaining lost ground by attacking with five regiments around Loos and against part of the 7th Division on the left flank. Foggy weather inhibited observation, the artillery preparation was inadequate and the British and French defenders were well prepared behind intact wire. The German attack was repulsed with 3,000 casualties but managed to disrupt British attack preparations — </em>it’s yanked out of his hands and thrown onto the dining table.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oi,” Tom frowns, looking up, “I was reading that.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will walks around the long dining table to come and sit next to him. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“You shouldn’t,” he says, “it will only make you worry more.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s ankle has finally healed enough for him to take off the cast. It still aches sometimes and he has to keep using the clutches for another month but it’s a huge improvement from being stuck at home. He came around to Will’s house after school to see him because, well, he misses him, okay? School was already boring but it’s almost intolerable now Will has finished and Joe has gone off to war. It’s only <em>almost</em> intolerable because of Max. God knows he would be skipping out on every lesson if it wasn’t for Max (or, admittedly, Killy).</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“We all thought it would be over by Christmas but it’s been going on for a year now with no sign of it stopping,” Tom’s frown deepens, “I mean…maybe I should be worried. Joe said he couldn’t come back in August because they needed as many men as possible,” he points to the front page of the <em>Rainford Review</em>. In bold, capital letters the headline reads: <em>THE GREAT BATTLE OF LOOS. </em>Below that is a full page photograph of hundreds of soldiers walking in an orderly line through an abandoned French town. “This battle must have been the reason his leave got cancelled. They’re saying it’s the biggest British offensive so far on the Western Front.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Tom, the papers say a lot of things,” Will tells him and takes a sip of his tea, “their goal is to sell and nothing sells better than hysteria.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Well, they must be selling out with the war going on,” Tom says, reaching forward and wrapping his fingers around the steaming mug of hot chocolate Will made for him upon stepping into his house. “I just…I just want him to come home.” He bites his lip, “Clarence, Killy’s oldest brother got killed at Loos.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will looks at him, “he did?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom nods, “yeah, Max told me they buried him near the frontline…” He can’t stop the question from spewing out, “do you think that’s what’ll happen to Joe if—if—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“You mustn’t think like that,” Will says, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing it, “it’s better not to think of it at all.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He feels cold, from the frosty walk here or the thought of Joe never coming home at all he isn’t sure. It doesn’t matter. Somewhere in Loos, his older brother is being bombarded with artillery, fighting for his life and every life in England. Tom sighs and drinks the hot chocolate but the cold remains.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>November</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">On a rainy Saturday afternoon, Tom sits in the cosy reading room of Rainford Library waiting for Will so they can continue with their weekly French lessons but Will is uncharacteristically late today. He’s normally really early or bang on time for everything. Not to mention he has been working at the library full-time since finishing school so he should already be here. Tom hopes he’s okay. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He momentarily pushes aside his concern for Will to glare up at Mrs. Hubert, the head of Rainford Library who stands over him, frowning with her hands propped on her hips. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He straightens up in his seat on the sofa and offers her a bright smile everyone says is identical to Joe’s,“oh, hello, Mrs Hubert, how are you this fine afternoon?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Her frown only deepens, her ancient, wrinkled face contorting into annoyance. Okay. So, something’s got her in a tizzy. It doesn’t take much. Tom’s presence in the library is enough for her mood to darken. He’s been pretty well behaved so he doesn’t get why she’s so—</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“You owe ten shillings in late book fines,” she says. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>“</em>What?” He says, staring up at her with furrowed eyebrows. Is she mad? “I don’t have any late fines.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mrs. Hubert glares down at him. “Yes, you do.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Any books he takes out he returns well before their due date because Mrs. Hubert watches him like a hawk. She has been waiting for him to slip up ever since that incident with Killy so she can ban him. He would rather eat his own trousers whole than give her the satisfaction. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“No, I don’t,” he says because he bloody well doesn’t. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, you do,” Mrs. Hubert huffs and takes out a small notebook from her woolly cardigan and opens it. She nudges her half-moon glasses down her hook noose to read it. “You are yet to return the following books; <em>Tartuffe, Madame Bovary</em> and <em>Bel-Ami</em>.” She looks at him, “all are overdue by <em>six months,</em> Tom!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Six months</em>?” Tom repeats in disbelief, pushing himself up to stand. There’s no bloody way he’s accepting this slander. “I returned all those books <em>before</em> the due dates. Ask Harriet, she was the one who checked them in.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mrs. Hubert says, “Harriet’s away on holiday.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s eyes narrow, “how convenient.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mrs. Hubert’s eyes narrow too. “What are you trying to say?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I’m <em>saying</em> I returned all those books and you’re <em>wrong.” </em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"><em>“</em>You did <em>not</em> and I am <em>right,</em>” she retorts.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Y’know what?” Tom scoffs again, “fine, let’s go downstairs to the foreign bit for books and I’ll show you they’re there because I <em>did</em> return ‘em.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Mrs. Hubert turns her nose up, “yes, <em>let’s.</em>” </span>
</p><p class="p5"><span class="s2">Tom frowns at her before he starts marching out of the reading room with Mrs. Hubert following closely behind. The woman is ridiculous. Her life is so boring she has to imagine things to be angry about. He hasn’t even been at the library for fifteen minutes and Mrs. Hubert is harassing him. He rushes down the winding staircase and heads to the aisle packed with foreign fiction to prove Mrs. Hubert wrong. <em>Oh</em>, this is going to be so sweet.</span> <span class="s2">She has been looking for any reason to ban Tom for almost three years now and she thinks she finally has it.</span></p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“No, the next one,” Mrs. Hubert says when Tom almost turns into the History section. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">They walk down the International aisle, Tom eyes every book they pass, his fingers trailing along the spines until he comes to a halt. He bends down and pulls out the books. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“A-ha,” he says, standing back up and turning to show them to her. “Here they are; <em>Tartuffe, Madame Bovary</em> and <em>Bel-Ami.”</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Give me that,” Mrs. Hubert frowns as she takes them off him. She opens each one to the first page to check the stamps confirming their return dates. Tom can tell the exact moment he’s won and proven her wrong by the way her mouth parts and closes.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Well?” Tom leans an elbow against the shelf and rests his cheek in the palm of his hand.He grins, “I think ten shillings is an appropriate apology for accusing me of such nonsense.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“You’re not getting ten shillings,” Mrs. Hubert snaps then pouts like a child when she’s well into her seventies, “I was….mistaken.” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s grin widens. That must have pained her to say. He wonders if she will burst into flame at any second. She kneels down and shoves the books back onto the shelf. She looks up at Tom when she stands. It used to be that they were the same height but Tom went through a bit of a growth spurt in the summer and he’s taller than her. He’s taller than Mum and Granddad too. He almost reaches Will’s ear now but Will is a lanky guy and he just keeps growing taller and taller. Tom doubts he’ll ever catch up with him. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">She lets out a huff, spins on her heels and trots away in her clanky kitten heels. Tom chuckles. He’s about to walk off too when he hears a giggle coming from the next aisle. Curious, he walks to the opposite end of the aisle and peaks his head past the book shelf. His breath stutters in his throat. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The early afternoon light floods in through the huge arched windows and falls on Will and Kara, one of Killy’s older sisters. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Will is leant back against a shelf with an open book in hand and Kara smiling up at him as he reads it aloud in latin. “…<em>quo pius Aeneas, quo Tullus dives et Ancus, pulvis et umbra sumus.</em>” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">For a moment, Tom is mesmerised by the mellow nature of Will’s voice and how, even though he can't understand a word, he can feel the deep melancholy pushing through. Kara seems just as mesmerised, her brown eyes swim with some yearning emotion Tom feels mirrored back within himself. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“…<em>nec Lethaea valet Theseus abrumpere caro vincula Pirithoo</em>,” Will says, then pauses and shuts the book. He glances down at Kara, “sorry, hope I didn’t bore you…”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Kara’s smile widens, “no, it’s a beautiful poem. I mean I had no idea what you said but it was beautiful. Thank you for reading it to me.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, you’re…you’re quite welcome,” Will returns her smile faintly, “uh, last summer, Lauri and I went to a lecture in Cambridge and the professor confessed that he thought it to be the most beautiful poem in ancient literature, which—”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Kara grabs Will by the collars of his shirt and pulls him down for a kiss. Will lets out a small, surprised gasp as Kara spins around so her back is against the book shelf and Will is before her. He closes his eyes, his hand coming up to rest on the shelf by Kara’s shoulder and the other rests on her hip and —</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom turns and runs out of the library, ignoring the dull ache in his ankle and the confused look Mrs. Hubert throws him on his way out. It’s still pouring rain outside and it rains all the way home. Tom ignores that too. He grits his teeth, some dark, hot emotion lances through him as he crosses the road.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">If Will wants to go round kissing Kara Kilgour in the library when he’s supposed to be practicing French with Tom then he’s bloody welcome to do it. Tom isn’t going to wait around for him to finish kissing Kara. He has better things to do.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Before Joe left, Tom heard him mention to Lauri that Kara had taken a bit of a fancy to Will. Tom had dismissed it at the time because, well, Will hadn’t shown any interest in Kara, he hadn’t shown any interest in anyone actually and it was hard to imagine him doing so. He only had eyes for one thing and one thing only. Poetry. Kara must be pretty special to tear his attention away from poetry.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Tom hasn’t been able to do that — he freezes. Wait, wait,<em> what?</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The rain pours, soaking him through to the bone but he doesn’t move, standing still in the middle of street as the realisation hits him like a freight train.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Tu te moques de moi?”</em> he whispers, his heart becoming a wild thing in his chest at the mere thought of William Schofield. Its thundering beat in his ears drowns out the sound of the heavy rain, “are you kidding me?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>all of joe's letters are based off real letter soldiers sent home and lbr things have been quite soft so far but fair warning, its gonna be quite painful for everyone involved from now on. like they say, its always darkest before the dawn.</p><p>again, thank you for reading you amazing gems! </p><p>p.s. the latin poem will reads to kara is by horace, from odes (book 4, poem 7). it really is said to be the most beautiful poem in ancient literature, do give it a read.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 1916 - Will</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Conscription drags tens of thousands men into a neverending war. A pleasant surprise lightens the dark mood.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p4">                                            ☾                  ☾          ☾                ☾                         </p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>1     9     1     6</b> </span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <b>February</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The gate creaks open. The snow crunches under his feet as he walks to the Blake household. This time of year the vines crawling all over their cottage walls are stripped bare from the cold. In the brighter months when the sun is no longer shy to spread its light everywhere, the vines bloom brilliant green and it makes their house look like something out of a fairy tale, a cottage in the magical woods where lost heroes come to find their way. He hopes to find his way today or rather, to feel less guilty about it.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will knocks on the door, Myrtle’s muffled bark comes through on the other side before it opens to reveal a smiling Elsie Blake with flour dusting her curly blonde hair and a flowery apron. Myrtle sits at the bottom of the stairs, her tongue out and her tail wagging.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Morning, love,” Elsie says. She tilts her head to the side, “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages, you don’t come ‘round as often.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“No, I—I suppose not.” He says rather sheepishly as he rubs the back of his neck. “Work has been keeping me busy. Sorry.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He has been working full time at the library since he left school and since Mrs. Baumer recommended him to Cambridge, he spends his weekends immersed in old literature that needs translating and sent back. He doesn’t have much, if any, time for leisure these days and the few hours of relaxation he does get, he goes on walks with Kara Kilgour or lectures at Oxford and Cambridge with Lauri.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He didn’t know what he wanted to do when he finished school last June. If he had still been at Eton, he would have continued his studies in Oxford like he often spoke about with George Parry, arguably his only companion at that school. He often wonders if Parry did manage to go to Oxford or if he has been dragged into the war, if he is on some muddy French field evading shells and bullets. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">There are no <em>ifs </em>now, the government announced conscription only a few days ago. Parry, Will, all those boys in his class at Eton, and any boy of age must join the war.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Elsie waves her hand dismissively, “oh, there’s nothing to apologise for my love! You’re nineteen. I forget sometimes. You’re a man now.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Nan says that too. He’s growing too quickly, so quickly she wonders where the years have gone. Somedays, she will look at him like she is comparing him to an old picture and she turns teary-eyed and squeezes his cheeks. Often she comments that Will looks just like Grandpa and a small part of him preens or even sighs in relief because she didn’t compare him to Father. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Come in, love,” Elsie says, stepping aside, “you’re bringing the cold in and to be honest, the last thing I need is you catching pneumonia and your nan biting my head off for it.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">She shuts the door as Will steps in. She gestures for him to take his coat off and throw it on the hangar but he shakes his head. </span>
</p><p class="p4"><span class="s2">“I cannot stay long I’m afraid,” he says, glancing around the landing, “Mrs. Baumer wants me to go over her finished translation of <em>Poetics. </em>I don’t want to keep her waiting. I just came over to drop something off.”</span> <span class="s1"> He doesn’t add that he also wants to tell Tom he has to enlist. </span> <span class="s2">Will opens up his leather satchel and rummages through all the books stuffed inside and checks the gift he brought is in there. It is. He looks over at Elsie, “Is Tom in?”</span></p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Elsie pats the flour off her apron. Myrtle rushes over to them and starts licking the flour off the wooden floor. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Myrtle,” Elsie says with a light chuckle then shakes her head and glances up at Will, “yeah, he’s in the kitchen. We’re making scones to hand out after mass tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">When mass finishes at St. Christopher’s, Father Fairchild invites everyone to the small hall built into the church for tea, baked treats and conversation. A few months ago, Tom started bringing his homemade baked goods for people to eat after mass and attendance at the post-mass chat has doubled because of him. He has half the village enamoured with his bakery.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Why don’t you wait in the living room and I’ll grab him for you,” Elsie says, “Henry’s in there, have a little catchup with him, he hasn’t seen you in a while either.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will nods and walks into the living room where Tom’s grandfather, an overweight and grey-haired elderly man, sits in the plush armchair by the wide window that looks out onto the back garden. Will is a little relieved to see he’s fallen asleep. Henry would want to talk about the war and probably how glad he is that the government is finally taking this war seriously enough to make it mandatory for men to fight. Will doesn’t want get into an another argument about how immoral and undemocratic it is to force people into war. Henry snores lightly in the chair, his huge glasses perched on his forehead with his mouth ajar and the open newspaper lays forgotten in his lap. Will walks a little closer to check what he was reading. He frowns. Of course it is about the war.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>THE GREATEST BATTLE OF WAR IS RAGING, WITH VERDUN AT THE CENTRE OF ACTIVITY.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <em>More than 400 guns are amassed behind the German Front. The cannonade is termed the sublimest spectacle of destruction and thunder since the world began; half a million men in attack force; whole battalions annihilated by French curtain of fire; Germans take several outer positions but the French are confident attack will fail; Russians again rout Turks. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The subheading only confirms the reason why Will tries to avoid the papers and their anxiety-inducing talk of the war. He has particularly avoided the papers since conscription was announced.He doesn’t need to hear more horror stories when he will be experiencing it himself soon. He prays Joe is miles away from the carnage at Verdun. It is a battle between the French and the Germans, thankfully, the British are not involved with this one. He prays they won’t be. Joe wrote to him only a few days ago, excitedly informing Will of his promotion to Second Lieutenant and there was no mention of Verdun. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will cranes his head and continues reading the paper, he’s now morbidly curious about this battles outcome. It has been almost a week and it still rages on. How many men have died in those first crucial days? Will he be one of those men when he is dragged onto the front line?</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Paris, Feb. 25 : With the French lines battered by day and by night by the masses of the enemy hurled against them, the Germans have now begun a shattering bombardment of the outer defensive works of Verdun —</em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Bleed France white,” a deep voice says. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will startles and turns to the open door of the living room. Tom stands in the doorway with Myrtle by his feet, still wagging her tail and looking between the two boys. It has been almost a year since Tom’s voice broke from the soft pitch of childhood to a deep, rich pitch of adulthood and Will still isn’t used to it. He’s not used to how tall Tom has gotten either. One day Will was teasing him by holding a book too high for Tom and smiling as Tom struggled to jump and take it and the next day, Tom could reach the book and shove Will back for being annoying. He hasn’t reached Will’s height and he likes to tease Will back by calling him a beanpole.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Once, Tom called Will a beanpole in front of Killy and Killy had smirked and said, “I bet you wouldn’t mind climbing that beanpole would you, Tom?” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will had frowned in confusion and Tom’s face had turned tomato red as he slammed a hand over Killy’s mouth and repeatedly told him to shut up. Will had chalked it up to Killy being his usual strange self because, well, nothing Killy said or did made sense.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Looking at Tom then, Will understands his grandmother’s wistful sentiments about growing up too quickly. Where has the time gone? Sometimes, it feels like only days ago he arrived in Rainford and met a friendly seventeen-year-old Joseph Blake and a small yet mouthy Thomas Blake. Now, the elder brother is almost twenty and knee-deep in muddy trenches and the younger brother is sixteen and becoming a baking connoisseur. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom stands in the doorway with his hands stuffed in the front pocket of his flowery apron and some speckles of flour in his mop of curly, dark hair. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will says, “pardon?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Apparently that’s what General Falkenhyan wants,” Tom says, “to bleed France white.” He leans a shoulder against the door frame, “I was reading up about it. The Germans think they can overwhelm the French with a long, hard battle ‘cos Verdun is really important to them, it’s a historic city or something.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“But,” Will frowns, “if their plan is to tire the French out with a long battle it means they will have to hold out longer than them.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom blinks, then laughs, “oh, yeah, I didn’t even think of that. Actually, it’s quite a stupid plan.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He didn’t realise it until now but he misses Tom. He has been busy with the library and translations for the last couple of months he hasn’t seen much of his dear friend. It’s not that he hasn’t tried to see him, he has but each time Tom hasn’t been home or he has to run off to do an errand with Max. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Indeed,” Will says, then smiles.</span>
</p><p class="p3"><span class="s1">Tom’s laughter dies, a dazed look passing over his face as he looks at Will. For a moment too long, silence sits tensely between them. The few times he has managed to talk to Tom in the last couple of months it has felt…tense.</span> <span class="s1">Something has shifted in their friendship, something profound and it threatens to drive Will mad trying to pinpoint it. Myrtle barks and Tom jolts, pushing himself off the door frame and folding his arms over his stomach. </span></p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom clears his throat, “so, um, Mum said you wanted to drop something off for me?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Right, yes,” Will says, remembering why he had come over in the first place. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He places his satchel on the coffee table and rummages through it again until he pulls out a heavy, hardcover book. He walks over to Tom and gives it to him.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“What’s this?” Tom asks as he flips the book between his hands. He glances at the cover, “<em>Recettes Pour Le Maître Pâtissier.</em>” He glances up at Will, “you got me a French pastry book?” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will nods, “Lauri and I went to Cambridge for a lecture on biblical literature and they had a book fair on. I saw this French recipe book and—” he shrugs, “I thought you might like it, it’ll help with your French.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">They haven’t had their usual French lessons in almost two months and it’s not because Will is too busy, he is but he would craft the time by any means necessary for Tom. Tom’s French is almost perfect, <em>almost </em>he just needs more practice. He planned to give Tom his own makeshift French listening and writing exam back in November after a few more lessons but then Tom never turned up to their lesson in the library. Will had sought him out after his shift had ended but Elsie told him Tom had gone to Max’s and when Will had gone to Max’s, Max had said Tom didn’t fancy practicing any French at the moment. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom flicks through the book, taking in all the different recipes, his blue eyes seem to shine with the possibility of it all. He glances back up at Will, “I do like it, thank you.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will smiles and Tom gets that dazed look again. Will steps forward, Tom steps back. Will frowns. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t get it. What has changed between them? Some change is good, some change is bad. He’s not sure what kind of change is this and if they can ever return to the way they were before. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will’s mouth opens and closes as he tries to think of the best way to approach this. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Forgive me,” he says, making sure to meet Tom’s bright blue gaze. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom stares at him,“for what?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I feel as if I have wronged you in some way,” he says, “and if I have, I apologise. Could you tell me what I did?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The only thing he can think of that could have annoyed Tom is that he was late to the weekly French lesson back in November but Tom hadn’t turned up either, that cannot be it.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“There’s nothing to forgive,” Tom says, wrapping his arms around the large book and clutching it against his chest. He glances away, pouting slightly when he continues, “you haven’t wronged me in any way. I don’t think you ever could.” He licks his lips and glances back at him, “Will, I…” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will watches him and waits. Tom remains quiet for too long, staring at Will with those big blue eyes like he’s lost at sea and Will might be his compass. It is an arresting sight and Will finds himself frozen to the spot, unsure what to do or say in that moment but stare back at Tom. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Somehow, he manages to croak, “Tom?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom blinks, then lets out a laugh that sounds too forced to be genuine. He holds onto the book with one arm and tugs a hand through his hair, spreading flour into the air. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” Tom says, “sorry, it’s—” he shakes his head, “you’ve done nothing wrong Will.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I haven’t?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“You haven’t.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Then, why does it feel like you have been avoiding me?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The question seems to take Tom by surprise. He blinks up at Will for a few seconds. Finally, he says, “I haven’t — I haven’t been avoiding you. It’s just — you’re busy, aren’t you? At the library, with the translations, with…” he glances away again and mumbles something too quiet for Will to hear.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“What?” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom sighs as he looks up at Will. “I haven’t been avoiding you, okay? You have work and I have school and with Joe gone, I’m helping Mum run the cherry farm now and once I finish my driving lessons with Granddad I’m going to start doing deliveries to London soon. We’re both busy.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will draws in a breath and readies himself. He takes a step forward, “Tom, I have to tell you something—”</span>
</p><p class="p4"><span class="s2">“Later, yeah?” Tom takes a few steps back into the landing. “Look, I have to go check on the scones,” he waves the book in the air, “thanks for this, really. <em>C</em></span> <span class="s1"> <em>’est vraiment gentil de votre part.</em> </span> <span class="s2">”<em> It’s really kind of you.</em></span></p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Frustration rises within him at Tom’s flippancy because if he doesn’t say this now, he never will. He turns to leave and Will uses his firmest voice to say, “Tom. I’m enlisting.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He has been holding that in for the last week, unsure of how to let it spill out and now that it is finally out it feels worse. He thought he would feel better once he freed himself of the guilt of keeping his enlistment from Tom but it doesn’t. Why does it feel worse? </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom freezes in the doorway, he has his back to him but Will can sense the tension rolling from him in waves. Will’s heart speeds up as Tom slowly turns back to face him, his expression is one of confusion and ever rising turmoil.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“You what?” Tom says. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will forces himself to repeat it. “I’m enlisting. I’m going to war, Tom.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom blinks as if Will speaking Sumerian. “What — what are you talking about?” He marches into the living room, the confusion giving way to anger that twists his mouth into a fine line. “How can you be enlisting?” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will steps back, surprised by Tom’s growing fury. He has seen Tom furious plenty of times, at Max for cheating at football, at Killy for dragging him into trouble, at his mother for banning him from joining the rugby team but in all the years they have known each other that fury has never once been directed at Will. He scrambles for all the ways he can return in Tom’s good graces.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will turns to his satchel and pulls out the leaflet he took from the library. “It’s conscription,” Will says, turning to face Tom. He passes the leaflet to him. “All eligible men from the ages of eighteen to thirty-four have to enlist.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom takes the leaflet, his mouth falling open as he reads it. “This — this can't be right,” he says, “they can't do this. They can't just — just force people to fight and die! They can't do this.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Well, they have,” Will says.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“But how many more men do they bloody need? They have already taken half the men in this village,” Tom continues on, “I don’t understand. This was supposed to be over by Christmas…wait,” his eyes seem to light up then, some flicker of pointless hope, “it says you have until March second to appeal.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not appealing,” Will says.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s head snaps up to look at him. His gaze is sharp, “you what?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“It’s pointless,” he replies, telling him the same thing he told Nan when she brought it up, “Appeals are for farmhands and factory workers, working at the library is hardly essential work.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“You don’t know if you don’t try, Will.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t care for knowing,” he says, “I want to get this over and done with.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom grits his teeth, “war isn’t something you can just <em>get over and done with.” </em>He steps closer to him, <em>“</em>you have to appeal, Will, you need to stay in Rainford.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Why?” He says, a little surprised by Tom’s sudden vehemence. He thought he would dismiss this as he has been dismissing Will for the last couple months.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom sputters, “because — because you just do, okay? What about our lessons? I still need to learn French.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“You seem to be doing fine without them,” he says, “and I’m sure Lauri will teach you if you ask her—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t want Lauri,” Tom snaps, staring up at Will with those big blue eyes, “I want you — to stay. I want you to stay.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He thought this would be a quick, painless conversation. Tom would nod, wish Will good luck and make some excuse to go. If anything, it’s becoming more painful with each second that passes.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Tom,” Will sighs. “I cannot stay.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">A thousand emotions flash across Tom’s eyes before he glares daggers at Will. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Fine!” Tom snaps. He scrunches up the leaflet and throws it at the wall, “if you’re so hellbent on dying in some bloody field there’s nothing I can do to stop you!”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Tom—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He turns and storms out and Will is left standing in the living room with Myrtle staring up at him. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Aren’t you going to follow him?” Will asks, a little surprised she hasn’t left either. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Myrtle trots over to him and rubs the side of her head against his leg. Will sighs once more. He is being comforted by a dog. He didn’t realise he looked that sad.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Thanks, M,” he says when she looks up at him. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">She makes a low mewling sound and goes back to rubbing his leg with her head. Will glances at his wristwatch. He ought to leave. Mrs. Baumer expects him in fifteen minutes. Will bends down to pat Myrtle’s head before he grabs his leather satchel off the coffee table and walks out into the hallway. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He has just grabbed the door knob when Elsie says his name. He turns to find Elsie standing at the bottom of the stairs, one hand holding onto the wooden railing. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Will, darling,” she says, letting go of the banister to walk over to him. She drops her voice down to a whisper, “I’m sorry about Tom. He didn’t mean it, you’re one of his dearest friends, he cares a lot about you and he doesn’t want to see you hurt.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will looks down the hallway to make sure Tom isn’t in sight. He whispers back, “I know, I know, I’ll talk to him when he’s calmed down.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“It’s just—” she lets out a short huff, “Joe has been gone for so long now, Tom can't stand the idea of anyone else leaving.” She pauses, “none more than you.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will glances at the ajar door of the kitchen at the end of the hallway. Tom’s back is turned to him, pots and pans are clanging as he scrubs them clean in the sink. He looks back at Elsie. She watches him for a moment, something like melancholy in her eyes before she steps forward and pulls him in for a hug. Will hesitates before he returns her hug. </span>
</p><p class="p2">☾</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Is this your first time?” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will clears his throat, trying his best to hide his nerves, “yes.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Kara offers him a soft smile and Will has the urge to reach across the table and place his hand over hers but, of course, he doesn’t. He has a sense of propriety after all, although his nan thinks otherwise due to his close friendship with the Blakes. Then again, Nan has a lot of opinions about a lot of things.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">A few of Nan’s friends from church and the knitting club she runs in the town hall are sat a few tables away, they keep throwing curious glances at Will and Kara. Will bets every second of this encounter will relayed back to Nan and the last thing he needs is a lecture from her about proper public etiquette. Hand holding in public does not qualify as proper public etiquette.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will glances down at the menu, unsure of what he wants and more unsure of how this conversation will go. She was the one who suggested they meet in the<em> Green Brew </em>for a spot of afternoon tea. In the three years he has lived in Rainford, he has never stepped foot in the cafe despite the fact it is directly opposite the library. He has always walked past and glanced in at the dozen or people milling about, drinking their tea and nattering on as if the cafe was the perfect stage for idle conversation. He supposes it is but the conversation he plans on having is far from idle. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Perhaps it is the selection of creamy cakes and tea that allows for any type of conversation to become idle.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The chamomile tea looks good. Chamomile tea is said to be calming. He could use that right now. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The waitress leaves the trio of Nan’s friends to walk over to their table. Kara says she always chooses this spot because it allows for people-watching and she can admire the painting of Rainford hanging on the wall above Will’s head, while she admires the painting Will admires her in turn. She looks lovely this afternoon, her red hair appears like fire in the golden light that floods in from the huge bay windows to their right. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The waitress is Blanche Leslie, the Mayor’s youngest and only daughter. She was part of Joe’s raucous group of friends back in school and now she helps her uncle run <em>Green Brew</em>. She is also Kara’s closest friend and that’s probably another reason Kara spends so much time in the cafe. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Kara, Will,” Blanche says when she reaches their table, her smile is bright as her gaze skips between the two. She rocks back and forth on her feet, “ready to order?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Kara returns Blanche’s smile and says, “<em>yes,</em> can we get the miniature afternoon tea please.” She glances at Will, “what would you like?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Chamomile tea, please,” Will says. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Blanche nods, “perfect, it should about five minutes.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">She takes their menus, turns and disappears behind the counter and into the kitchen to relay their order. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Kara taps her fingers on the table, she bites her lower lip before she says, “listen, Will, I — I think I know what you wanted to talk about.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will straightens up in his seat, feeling alert all of a sudden. This — thing between him and Kara is still fairly new. Ever since she kissed him in the library back in November they have worked around each other’s schedules to meet at least once a fortnight for a walk through the woods and endless green fields surrounding Rainford or day trips to London. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“You do?” He says. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Kara stopped by the library two days ago to say hello to him. He had been returning books to their respective shelves when she approached him with an air of nervousness about her. He hadn’t seen her in almost three weeks as she had been down in Brighton visiting family and he thought it was prudent to finally tell her about the new law if she didn’t already know herself. She probably did.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Kara nods as she clasps her hands together in front of her on the table. “My sister told me about it when I returned,” she says, a forlorn look passing over her face, “you’re enlisting, aren’t you?’</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” he says, “I haven’t officially done so yet but it doesn’t matter, the government automatically enlists all eligible men next week.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">When Nan found out the government had announced conscription, she cursed every man that had a hand in it and she went on a rant about the undemocratic immorality of it all.She wanted to send a letter of appeal but Will stopped her. His job at the library and his translations were not more important than the war. Duty has called and it would be heinous thing to decline it despite all he has acquired in Rainford. Grandpa went off to war without a fuss when the time came and Father often remarked he would have done the same should the country require it of him. The war must be dire straits for the government to enforce enlistment like this. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I went for the tests yesterday,” Will says, recalling how Nan had accompanied him to the Warley Barracks in Brentwood. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">There had been hundreds of men in line, all awaiting to see if they were fit enough to join the army.Most of them were. The checks had gone well and the officer that had completed his tests told him he was in perfect condition to fight. After, Will had been taken to a dusty office where he placed his hand on a bible to swear allegiance to the King and promise to do his duty. It had felt like a lie. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">She asks, “are you joining the Essex Regiment? Most of the boys from the village do, Clarence is —was…was in the Essex Regiment.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Her voice catches at the amendment and that forlorn look seems to overtake her delicate features. Will damns propriety and reaches across to cover her clasped hands with his own. He ignores the wave of teetering coming from Nan’s friends’ tables. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The Kilgours are a large family, three boys and three girls with Clarence as the oldest and Killy as the maddest. Last December the village came together one snowy, frigid morning to remember Clarence Kilgour and two other boys from Rainford who had fallen in the Battle of Loos. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Kara blinks back the tears welling up as she shakes her head. She sniffs, “sorry, sorry—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“It’s okay,” Will says.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">She unclasps her hands and intertwines their fingers together. “Where are you being assigned?” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“The East Surrey Regiment,” he says, “the eighth to be precise. I’ll be training in Kingston-upon-Thames for a couple of months.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“You’re joining the Eighth?” A bright voice says.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will and Kara look up to find Blanche standing by their table holding a tiered tray packed with finger sandwiches and scones. Will lets go of Kara’s hands and awkwardly settles his own in his lap. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Pardon me, I don’t mean to be nosy.” She says as she places the trayin the middle of the table. "My brother's in the Eighth.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“No matter. Which one? Milton?” Kara asks as Blanche has two older brothers both of whom enlisted in the war the day it was declared a few years ago.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> Nan says Mayor Leslie made sure they were the first to enlist as he couldn’t have his sons appear to be cowards. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Blanche lays down the folded napkins and cutlery before each of them. “No, Milton’s in the Essex Regiment. I’m talking about Ellis,” she says, “he’s a lieutenant in the eighth,” a corner of her lips quirk up, “he hates every second of it — he’s always complaining about how annoying some of his men are and that none of them even know what day of the week it is.” She glances at Will, “sorry, it looks like he might be one of your senior officers.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will never spoke to either of Mayor Leslie’s sons but he did see Ellis Leslie swearing at the squirrels in Jade Park when they tried to steal the bread he had brought for the ducks. This was about a month into his arrival in Rainford and at the time, Will remembers thinking he was a peculiar man. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t frighten him, Blanche,” Kara says, casting her an admonishing look.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not,” Blanche insists. She looks at him, “Will, are you frightened by my grumpy brother?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“No, I don’t know him—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“See?” Blanche turns to Kara who just shakes her head. She smiles, “right, enjoy your food and let me know if you need anything else.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will and Kara thank her in unison. She nods and goes over to check on Nan’s friends.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Listen, Kara,” Will begins, forcing himself to say it, “I have thoroughly appreciated our time together and if things were different I would have liked to continue seeing you but—” he swallows, the nerves wreaking havoc with his train of thought, “I’m going to war and I don’t wish to have you tied to someone who might not…return.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t add,<em> it would be cruel for both of us.</em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">She stares at him, that forlorn look is back. Her answering smile is sad, “I know, I thought you might say that. I suppose it’s better this way, maybe in another time, another life…”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He lets out a breath. “Maybe.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">She picks up a scone from the tray and places it on a saucer. “I wanted to tell you something too, “ she says, “I’m leaving Rainford next month.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“You are?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I’m joining the Voluntary Aid Detachment as a nurse,” she says, dropping a few sugar cubes into her tea, “I’ll be tending the wounded soldiers who arrive in England, and eventually, I’ll be taken to France to help the men in the Front.” She stares into the cup as she stirs the tea, “Clarence was stabbed in the stomach. He would have survived if they were enough orderlies or nurses but they weren’t and he bled out on the grass by the medical tents.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Kara…” he flounders to find the words but he cannot. To know someone you loved died alone and in tremendous pain is hell.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t want that happening to anyone else,” she looks at him then, the sadness is gone, replaced with steel-like determination, “and I can’t stand to be in Rainford any longer when the world is eating itself.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <b>March</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Something about all of this feels — inevitable. It feels as if it had been put in motions years, even decades ago, slowly gaining momentum with each day that passed and it has reached him. He is the next person to be swept up in the great runaway train this war has become, whether or not he survives is something only the Lord knows.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“When are you leaving?” Nan asks.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will stares at the letter. The confirmation of his enlistment is a bitter but familiar pill to swallow. It washes down much easier than expected. War was always meant for him and there is nothing any one could have done to stop that. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will looks up from the letter, Nan sits in the armchair with a steaming cup of tea in hand and a thick shawl wrapped around her.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“April 6th,” he tells her. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, she seems to have retreated into her mind. Will can almost see the thoughts churning inside her before she says, “three weeks.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">She looks — frail in the late afternoon light and his heart aches as she will be alone in this house once more when he departs. Nan is taking his deployment much better than he had expected. She gives him a sad smile and asks him to take the day off work tomorrow and come with her to afternoon mass that Wednesday. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">It is quiet inside the church, filled with bars of sunlight that spill in from the arched stained glass windows around them. Will watches the specks of dust dancing in the sunlight, fascinated by the motionless, as if they are frozen in time. It makes him think — wouldn’t it be nice if they were a button one could simply press to pause the world. Pause and breathe in the beauty, the futility and the wonder of it all. He used to do that at Eton. Will would go to the far corner of the college, sit by the gnarly oak tree and watch the boys engage in a game of kickabout or note the various birds that swept between the branches and into the sky. Sometimes Parry would join him with a snack his mother sent him and they would debate the various causes of the 1848 Revolutions. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Parry. He must have been sent to the Front. There is no question about it. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">They are less than half a dozen people in mass that Wednesday, which is the normal turnout for a midweek mass. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Nan fiddles with the corner of the bible as she looks at Will. “I know you would rather enlist with no fuss, you have never been much of a troublemaker unlike those Blake boys you insist associating yourself with—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Nan,” he says in an admonishing tone. He has no desire to hear her critique on the Blake family for the umpteenth time. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">She purses her lips then says, “I only mean…” she takes his hand and squeezes it, “you’re all I have left.” </span>
</p><p class="p3"><span class="s1">Will tries his best not to squirm. Father was never big on emotions. He seemed to get this faint look of disgust whenever Will expressed anything that was more than ambivalence and that look would cut him raw and red. Once he overheard the servants commenting that Father had been colourful, bright and happy when Mother was alive and when she died Father had died with her. The man Will knew was a ghost. Any exposure of emotion rises within him that panic and Father’s disgust. He has been trying to push past it since Nan told him he was free to be and do as he liked.</span> <span class="s1">It’s hard. Unlearning dark habits is hard but living as he used to, alone and morbid in Eton did him no good.</span></p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Nan frowns in disgust, “it makes no sense. A Serbian kills an Austro-Hungarian duke and our English boys are sent to France to fight Germany? Bloody nonsense.” She looks over at the large wooden cross nailed above the alter, then she looks back at him, “Will, pumpkin, you must take care of yourself in France, you must return safe and well and—” she smiles, although it feels sad, “preferably <em>whole. </em>War has a horrible habit of tearing men apart, inside and out. It did that to your grandfather, it did the very same to Henry Blake no matter what he says. I wanted to send the appeal because I fear it will do the same to you. I…I fear if you do return, you will return as someone else. So, my darling, all I ask is that you return <em>whole</em>, as you are now or nothing less.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">In her eyes, the same shade of dark blue as his own, he sees the days and months she spent worrying over Grandpa as he battled in Crimea. The worry and uncertainty of his survival tore at her and it changed her too. It almost broke her when he returned with one leg and an empty gaze. It’s cruel to do that to her again. Nan has to believe he will be okay and he will return to her. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“You are all I have left in the world,” she adds with a whisper.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He thinks of Tom, growing up and seeking his own path. He is still angry about Will’s enlistment and refuses to speak to him. He thinks of Joe, hundreds of miles away in some French fields and closer to death than any of them. He thinks of Lauri, ready to move on from translations and start teaching at Rainford Hill. He thinks of Kara, her warm kisses and her plans to save as many wounded soldiers as possible. Perhaps, it’s time he moved on too. Perhaps, like Eton, Rainford was a mere pause and he is meant to move on to other things and other places too. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Nan is all he has left in the world. Will pushes all the certainty and optimism within him into his voice then, “everything will be okay, Nan. Nothing has changed.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Her gaze scans his face as she sighs and says, “oh, pumpkin, everything has changed.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <b>April</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will has been working at Rainford Library for seven months. There are many things he likes about working here. It’s peaceful and quiet and he gets to spend his days surrounded by literature. Some days he spends his lunch hour sat against a bookshelf with a half-eaten apple and a copy of Homer’s fantastical works. Some days he comes home late, when the sun has disappeared and the stars are blinking bright after pouring over Sappho and Sophocles in the reading room with Lauri. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Perhaps, his most favoured aspect of the job is reading terrific tales to the children of St. Christopher’s Primary School twice a week. The children are no older than ten, eager and bright-eyed as Will tells them of magical wardrobes that lead to spectacular worlds to Indian jungles packed with ferocious animals. When he tells them he is leaving to help in the war, many of them are confused as they don’t understand and to his surprise a few of them cry and crowd around Will to hug him. He embraces them, warmed by their affection and bids goodbye to their teacher who wishes him luck.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">After the reading session, Will packs the books away for (probably) the last time, feeling a deep sense of melancholy at the turn this year has taken. He shouldn’t be surprised, this happened at Eton. He had finally grown accustomed to the school, to spending afternoons in the library or sitting in the field with Parry but then his teacher had pulled him out of class to quietly let him know of his father’s death. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">When he was sixteen, he arrived in Rainford on a windy morning and if the weather keeps up like this, it seems he will be leaving on a windy morning too. Will packs away the books as he mulls over the remaining days he has left in Rainford. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He’s crouched down on the floor, rearranging the books on the lower shelves when heavy footsteps come up behind him. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Excuse me, mate,” the deep voice says when they have reached Will, “do you know where I can find the newspapers?”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Of course,” Will pauses and stands up, “it’s three aisles down on the left, I can show—”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">The book slips from his hand and lands on the floor.</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Joe?” He manages to croak out because — because <em>he's here. </em></span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">It’s Joseph Blake standing before him, dressed in the khaki uniform of the British Army. He carries a hefty rucksack with a muddied, metal helmet hanging off it but the most surprising is the large rifle slung on his left shoulder. Joe holds onto the strap with one hand and with other he holds onto his cap. If he was passing Will on the street, Will wouldn’t recognise him but this close it couldn’t be anyone but Joseph Blake. His curly, dark hair has been cut short, and he has faint stubble that makes him look years older and Will marvels at the sight of him. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">It is Joe’s eyes that take Will back more than anything. They are still the same, bright shade of blue as Tom’s. It reminds him of the warm summers they spend exploring the forest or running through Danecroft but there is something different about him, a fleck of darkness that swims distantly in his gaze. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Joe smirks as he shifts the strap of his rifle onto his shoulder. “Would you like me to sit for an oil painting? You’re staring an awful lot, mate,” he says, “I’m not a ghost.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">His teasing startles Will out of his stupor and they both move at the same time, meeting in a crushing hug that stretches out for a while. When they separate, they are both grinning at each other and Will grinning so hard his cheeks are starting to ache but he doesn’t care.<em> Joe is here. </em>After almost <em>two years </em>at war and only corresponding via letters and the odd photograph, Joe has returned home and for the first time in months, perhaps since Joe left, the world feels right. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“I—I don’t…” Will stammers, still struggling to believe Joe has returned.</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Joe grins as he mocks Will, “I — I don’t…you don’t what, mate? Cat got your tongue?”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Will laughs and shoves him back. Joe hits the book shelf and soon they are both laughing, delirious from the sudden turn of events. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“I’m guessing you just came back?” Will says, taking in Joe’s uniform once more. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">It looks relatively clean but they are streaks of dirt here and there and his boots are caked in mud as if he only left the depth of the trenches a few hours ago.</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Joe nods, “yeah, my leave was only granted last week, I didn’t have time to write to everyone and tell them. My train arrived about five minutes ago and I was walking by the library and I thought let me check if Will is here and <em>voila, you are. </em>Do you live here now, mate?”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Will smiles, “shut up, I work here. How long is your leave?”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“I had my commanding officer put in a good word for me because he knows I haven’t been home in two years and I’m an exemplary officer if I do say so myself so they granted me a week.” Joe says, “but it took me two days to get here, bloody nightmare I’m telling you. I leave on Sunday.” A pause. The smile fades, “when do you leave?”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Will’s heart stumbles in chest. He knows, of course he knows. “I leave for London on the 6th.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Joe’s eyebrows rise. “But — that’s only two days away.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“I know,” Will sighs. They watch each other for a long moment. The despair of the situation sitting between them. Will says,“but today is my last day at the library, I’ll be free for the next two days. We can do whatever you like.” </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">The smile slowly returns to Joe’s handsome face, “oh yeah? How about you come to the pub tonight for drinks like old times?”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Will smiles too, “of course.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“And,” Joe places a hand on Will’s shoulder, “how about you come to my wedding tomorrow as my best man?”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Tomorrow?”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Joe nods, his smile growing into that wide grin that makes him indistinguishable from Tom. He says, “yeah, I don’t have much time and I want to marry Lauri as soon as possible. I was heading to the church to ask Father Fairchild to do an impromptu wedding tomorrow before I came in here. I’m sure he’ll say yes. I can be very convincing.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Will opens and closes his mouth, finally, he says, “yes, of course, I’ll be there.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Brilliant!” Joe squeezes his shoulder and lets go, stepping back to continue grinning at Will. He has to look up slightly as Will has grown to over six foot since they last saw each other. Joe laughs, “bloody hell, you’ve turned into a lanky bastard haven’t you?”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“And you’ve turned into a bear,” Will says, gesturing at Joe’s stubble. Try as he might, he hasn’t been able to grow one yet, the most he has achieved is a pathetic moustache which he shaved off the moment Tom burst out laughing when he saw it. Nan says he’s a late bloomer like Father, he couldn’t grow a proper beard until he was at least twenty-one. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Joe laughs once more as he places his cap back on and strokes his stubble with his other hand. “Listen, I have to go talk to Father Fairchild then I need to go home and give Mum, Granddad and Tom a heart attack when they see me and Lauri the same heart attack too,” he says as he walks backwards down the aisle. He points at Will, “I’ll see you tonight, six o’clock at the Round Table!”</span>
</p><p class="p2">☾</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"><em>The Round Table</em> is as loud and raucous as he remembers. He hasn’t been back since Joe left for the war. It didn’t feel right to do so, without Joe he would always feel misplaced in the pub packed with rowdy men and the stench of alcohol and cigarettes.When Will steps out into the beer garden to find Joe by a large table in the corner, amber-coloured pint in hand and that bright grin as he regales life on the front with Lauri and Blanche (some) of his old school friends it feels like he travelled back in time and all is well again. But it isn’t, of course it isn’t. Not all their school friends are here. Most of them have lost their lives in the war. And there is another difference too, Tom and Max are there, they sit on either side of Lauri and Joe.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Joe shoves a drink in his hand the moment he sees Will and pulls him into one of his crushing hugs, grinning and saying he is glad to see Will. Lauri is the happiest Will has seen her in years, she watches Joe the whole night with a lovestruck look and Joe does the same, pulling her against him and pressing quick kisses to her cheeks. All in all there is about ten people cramped around the table, listening to every word that pours out of Joe’s mouth with razor-sharp attention. Will can see why Joe was promoted to Second Lieutenant, he has a magnetism about that calls all to him, he inspires something in people and he bets Joe’s men will follow him into enemy fire without a moment’s hesitation. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The evening passes, the sun disappears into the horizon and the stars come out to greet them. Will has had a few fair drinks and the world has slowed down and warmed up to such a degree everything has the faint shimmer of a long-forgotten memory. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He tries to catch Tom’s eye from across the table but it seems Tom is still hellbent on ignoring Will, his stubbornness won’t let him let go of his anger for Will’s enlistment. Will tries not to let him affect him because it doesn’t matter, does it? Tom is happy, he hasn’t stopped smiling the whole evening and it’s all because of Joe’s return. Will sighs and drinks some more.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, Will,<em>mon cherie, c’est nest pas juste.” </em>Lauri says as she gets up from her seat to walk around the table and wrap her arms around Will’s shoulders. <em>This isn’t fair. </em>She presses her cheek to his and lets out a long sigh, <em>“Joe est de retour mais tu pars.”Joe is back but you are leaving. </em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He wants to say <em>I will come back</em>, he wants to say <em>everything will be fine</em> but he doesn’t want to fill them with empty promises. War is an unpredictable, cruel beast and it has consumed many men. He says none of that, he has no desire to make her cry on the day her fiancee returns to marry her after almost two years at war. Instead, Will pulls her arms off him, he stands up and hugs her. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Je sais, je sais,</em>” he whispers as she hugs him back. <em>I know, I know.</em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">She feels small and fragile in his arms, has she always been this small? </span>
</p><p class="p4"><span class="s2">She pulls back slightly to look up at him. Her lower lip quivering slightly, “<em>v</em></span> <span class="s1"><em>ous allez me manquer.”</em> </span></p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Tu me manqueras aussi</em>.” He gives her his warmest smile. <em>I’ll miss you too.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">☾</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Joe and Lauri marry in the morning. It is a quick, quiet affair as Father Fairchild has to squeeze them in between two christenings and he has to be in Chelmsford for a funeral. Apparently, he didn’t take much convincing when Joe asked him to marry him and Lauri. Father Fairchild seemed to carry some guilt for the anguish Joe suffered when his daughter broke his heart and left for Scotland to marry some wealthy suitor. Apparently, he is honoured to be a part of Joe finding the love of his life.A dozen or so people, including Joe and Lauri’s respective families and friends, sit in the pews, watching the young lovers pledge to spend their remaining days together. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Now that Joseph and Lauri have given themselves to each other by solemn vows, with the joining of hands, and the giving and receiving of rings,” Father Fairchild declares, spreading his arms apart, “I announce to you that they are husband and wife; in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Those whom God has joined together, let no one put asunder.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Joe leans down and Lauri rises onto her tip toes to meet him in a soft kiss. Will smiles, his heart warming. On the front rows, Elsie and Henry are beaming with pride. Tom whistles and rolls his eyes when Elsie swats him for making such a racket at her brother’s wedding. Lauri’s aunt, Mrs. Baumer, sniffs and wipes her tears away with handkerchief. Mr. Baumer couldn’t make the ceremony as he had an important meeting inLondon but he will be at the reception later on. Max looks more than elated to see his older cousin finally wed the love of her life. Kara cannot make the ceremony or the reception. She left for the V.A.D two weeks ago. Will, Lauri and Blanche saw her off at the station. She gave him one last kiss on the cheek before she stepped onto the train and it took her away.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Joe is grinning impossibly wide when they separate and Lauri’s cheeks are flushed pink. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Father Fairchild smiles as he says, “I introduce to you, for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Blake.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Joe and Lauri are beaming at each other as everyone stands to clap. </span>
</p><p class="p2">☾</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The reception is a lively, wonderful affair that goes on well into the evening. The plan was to have it at the village hall but they couldn’t book it at such short notice. The night before, Will begged Nan to let Joe and Lauri have their reception in their extensive back garden. She does always like to say that it could fit a small army. Nan agreed because she found Lauri and her French accent utterly charming and she thought it was the least Joe deserved for making it back home after two years at war. She lamented that the last person with that kind of strength had been Will’s late grandfather. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">It was a stressful scramble to organise the garden for a reception with only a few hours until the ceremony but they did it. Where the ceremony was small, the reception is packed with more than sixty people thanks to Joe’s drunken antics last night. He stood up on a table in the middle of the pub and declared that everyone was invited to his wedding reception tomorrow. In any other place that wouldn’t be advised but Joe knows everyone in this tiny village and this tiny village has seen him grow up. In many ways, they are an extension of his family.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Will, <em>ecouté</em>,” Lauri says as she loops her arm through his and guides him to the far corner of the garden where the conversation becomes a faint din. “Joe and I will not be leaving for our honeymoon tonight.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will doesn’t ask where they plan to honeymoon as, more than once, his childhood governess grilled into him that a couple’s destination was a private matter. Instead, he asks,“Why?” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Because you are leaving tomorrow morning and we want to say goodbye,” she explains, “we will leave about an hour after you.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The gesture warms him to his core but he cannot allow them to sacrifice the dwindling time Joe and Lauri have together for him. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He shakes his head and opens his mouth to object when Lauri cuts in, “<em>non</em>, Joe and I shall meet you outside your house tomorrow morning and we will go to the station together. I cannot bear to see you go without a proper goodbye, <em>mon cherie</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I — okay,” Will says, knowing it’s useless to argue with Lauri when she gets that determined look in her eye. He smiles, “I’ve been meaning to say…you look beautiful.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">A crown of blue hydrangeas and white jasmines sit atop her golden hair which has been curled and wrapped up in loose roll that frames her heart-shaped face. Her silk wedding gown fits her beautifully too, the scoop neck is adorned with lace and beading around the collar that has a piece cascading down from the left side. It’s no wonder Joe has not been able to take his eyes off her all night. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Lauri beams, “<em>merci, mon cherie</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Sometime later, when the food has been served and the cake (a delicious two-tiered Victoria sponge Tom and his mother spent last night making) has been cut, Will watches from his seat as Joe and Lauri dance to the sweet, dreamy notes of the piano Nan plays near the patio. It took three of them to drag the piano out into the garden and despite his now aching back, Will is glad of it. He won’t have the time nor the strength to drag it back into the dining room tomorrow but Tom promised him, Max and Killy would do it. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Joe and Lauri sway to the music, gazing adoringly at each other and perhaps, love, <em>proper </em>lasting love is real and perhaps, even crazier yet, it is something that can be found. He thought he might have found it with Kara but no such luck. Fortune favours the brave, isn’t that the saying? But he doesn’t know to be brave. It doesn’t bode well for him, does it?</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Sometime later again, when half the guests are drunk, Will and Joe sit on the short stone steps that lead up to the circular fish pond behind them. They have been chatting and drinking quietly here for the last hour. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Tell me, soon-to-be Private Schofield,” Joe says, looking at him, “are you scared?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He’s been waiting for someone to ask him this question. If Tom were talking to him, it would something he asked.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” Will answers simply. Fortune favours the brave when it should favour the truth. “Were you scared?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Joe says, “but I should have been. I was stupidly naive. You want to know something?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“What?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I lied about my age,” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“How? Eighteen is—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah but you have to be nineteen to be sent abroad otherwise you’re just dossing about, y’know?” Joe says, “after Lauri declined my proposal, I couldn’t stand to be in the country a second longer so I told them I was a year older than I actually was to get myself sent to the front quicker.” He puffs out a breath, “I had all these…grandiose ideas about war from all the books, okay, two books I read and the stories Granddad told me about Crimea. I thought I knew war, I thought I understood it. Two years in France have taught me I know nothing of war and I will never understand it.” He takes a deep gulp of his drink and sighs, “it’s such a waste of life.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will leans forward onto his knees. “Do you regret it? Do you regret rushing off to join like that? Do you regret joining at all?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Joe is quiet for a long drawn out moment. Laugh and chatter echoes in the garden.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I used to,” he begins, “about a week after my first battle when the full weight of what I had seen and done finally sunk in, I regretted every decision that led me to the trenches. I regretted my whole life…but recently—” he pauses to look over at Lauri dancing with Tom in the middle of the garden, “I’ve come to realise regret is useless. Every decision made is the right one at the time. No one sets out to make bad choices, do they? At the time, I didn’t want to wallow in self-pity like I had when Sadie Fairchild left me. I wanted action and distraction and the war offered exactly that.” He looks at Will, smiling now, “every decision I have ever made has led me to meeting you, to marrying Lauri, so, no, I don’t regret it and I’ll never regret anything ever again. I think it’s better to learn from those choices than regret them.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will finishes the last of his drink, “and what have you learnt from yours?” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Number one lesson is definitely talk to your family before joining the greatest war in history,” Joe says with a bellowing laugh. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will laughs too. He looks into his empty glass. His smile fades. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Almost out,” Joe says, standing up and grabbing both their glasses, “I’m gonna top us up.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will sits there for a minute or two, watching the guests and lamenting Joe’s words before he gets up too. He needs the loo. He walks back into the house and heads up stairs to the bathroom as the one downstairs is occupied. To his surprise Tom is there, washing his hands in the sink as he stumbles around. Will bites back a laugh, wondering just how much Tom has drank. He tries to turn off the tap but he fails, after a few more attempts Will leans over and turns it off for him. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I did it,” Tom says, his speech slurred from the hours of drinking, he glances at his hands, “oh wait, I don’t have three arms, what—” he glances up at Will and his eyes widen then as if he has encountered a fabled ghost. His cheeks are already flushed but the flush deepens as he visibly swallows. “W—Will.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“How much have you had Tom?” He asks, wondering if he needs to take him home to stop him from getting anymore drunk. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom doesn’t say anything, he just leans his head against the wall and stares up at Will with an expression of an awe, it is kind expression worn when staring up at the majesty of the stars. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Tom,” Will says, worry entwining with the haziness brought on by the pint Joe encouraged him to down in a few seconds. “Tom, are you okay?” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t,” Tom says.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“What?” Will says as he twists around to grab a few rolls of tissue paper from windowsill. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t go,” Tom says behind him. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He turns back and takes Tom’s hands and starts drying them with the tissue for him because he seems too out of it to do it himself. When he’s done, he scrunches it up and throws it in the bin.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Tom,” Will meets Tom’s gaze. “I have to. You know, I have to….and…” He shouldn’t say the next bit but the alcohol has loosened his tongue and he’s tired of walking on eggshells, “…and besides, I don’t think you want me around. This way you’re—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom tenses then, his eyes widening as if he has been doused with freezing cold water. “What — what are you talking about?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know,” Will shrugs, then he licks his lips and glances away, “I feel as if you hate me now.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Is that what you think?” Tom whispers and it’s the desperation in his voice that makes Will look at him. He reaches forward and grabs Will by the collars of his shirt, yanking him forward. Will lets out a small gasp as he puts a hand out against the wall to himself from crashing into Tom. Tom stares up at him, that starstruck look taking over his face and under the amber lights, his blue eyes look brighter than ever. “You think I hate you?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Do you not?” Will whispers back.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom’s Adam apple bobs as he swallows. He stares at up Will as one hand remains on his collar and with the other, he wraps his fingers around Will’s tie. And there it is, that stifling tension that has been sitting between them for months and for the life of him Will cannot put a name to it. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Je ne,</em>” Tom says in a rough voice, <em>I don’t. </em>He groans and drops his head on Will’s chest. <em>“Tu as l'air vraiment bien ce soir…tu sens bon aussi, tu sens toujours bon.” You look really good tonight…you smell good too, you always smell good. </em>He lets go of Will’s collar and tie and slides both his arms under his Will’s blazer to wrap them around his waist. He pulls Will against him, “<em>Je ne sais pas ce que je vais faire sans toi ici.” I don’t know what I’m going to do without you here. </em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will’s face heats up at the sudden proximity. It is becoming rather difficult to think. His thoughts are flying away before they are even fully formed. Somewhere in the back of his alcohol-addled mind, he knows Tom is drunk and so is he but he needs to be the adult here and push him away before either of them does anything stupid but try as he might he cannot move. He doesn't want to.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom looks up at him, his eyes seem bluer than ever in that moment. “<em>Will</em>,” he whispers his name like he has at an alter, ready to drop to his knees in prayer, “<em>je ne peux plus m'en empêcher.” I cannot help it anymore.</em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Thanks to some miracle, Will is able to find his voice. “You cannot help what anymore?” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom blinks ever so slowly, his gaze flitting across Will’s face before he rises up and for a manic, heartstopping second Will thinks Tom is going to kiss him but he just drops his forehead onto Will’s shoulder and mumbles something in German this time. Worse yet, some berserk, remote part of him is disappointed. His alarm and his heart rises once again when Tom pushes him against the corner wall and he buries his face in his neck. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will draws in a sharp, hissing breath. “<em>Tom</em>,” he rasps, “Tom, what are you doing?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom says nothing and Will can hear his own blood pounding through his ears. Startling alarm intertwines with the dizzy effect of the rum he shared with Joe and the buzzing, electric pulses skittering across his skin as Tom’s lips graze his neck. Tom is mouthing something into his skin, Will’s name or something else, he doesn’t know, all he knows is that this close, Tom smells like freshly baked bread and cherry blossoms and this has alarming levels of <em>wrong </em>because Tom is only sixteen and he is a dear friend and for Christ sake’s, he is Joe’s little brother and worse yet, worse than before, there is the staccato beat under everything that this is <em>right, right, right </em>and — he grips Tom’s arms with both hands and wrenches him back. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will can feel his face burning and his heart refuses to calm down, it’s like he has been on a ten-mile run. It’s just silence for a long, drawn-out moment as they watch each other.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom stares at him with those wide blue eyes and reddened cheeks, his dark hair falls over his forehead in loose, messy curls and Will’s heart almost gives out at the sight.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will flounders as he tries to remember how to speak. He lets go of Tom’s arms, “Tom, you’re drunk, this isn’t…”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just…” Tom starts, swaying slightly as he puts his hand out against the rim of the sink to steady himself. “<em>Ich glaube, ich liebe dich und weiß nicht, was ich tun soll.” </em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">If Will wasn’t still a little drunk and still reeling from the everything that just happened, he would be impressed by Tom’s easy command of German and he would ask Tom who has been teaching him. Max doesn’t have the patience, it’s probably Lauri. Perhaps, he has lost interest in French and he seeks a newer language.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom breathes in, “I need…”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Do you want some water?” Will asks, already choosing to forget this ever happened. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom shakes his head as he straightens himself up. “No, you oblivious numpty, I need…” he snaps his fingers, “…more cider! I am not drunk enough for this.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will frowns, “you’re quite drunk already, I don’t think—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t care what you think,” he says, walking past Will to get to the door, “you’re leaving and you won’t even fight to stay, so, bye, Will.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He slams the door behind him. Will closes his eyes, sighing as his knees finally buckle and he slides down against the wall and slumps onto the floor.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <strong>☾</strong>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will wakes up with a slight headache the morning he is meant to leave. Nan wanted to walk him to the train station and wave him off but her hip is acting up again and she cannot move from her bed. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“It’s all the dancing I did last night,” she tells him when he brings her breakfast on a tray. “I haven’t danced like that since…truthfully, I can hardly remember.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He sits at the end of the bed as he munches on an apple he plucked from the tree in the back garden. She tries to offer him some of her food but he declines, the nerves bundling up in his stomach won’t allow him to keep down a whole meal. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">When she’s done, he takes her plate downstairs and he goes back up to her room to find her crying. Will leans over and hugs her, she sniffs and whispers a soft prayer for his safety into his shoulder. He leaves her in bed, smiling sadly at him before he closes the door, grabs his bags and walks out of the front door. To his pleasant surprise, Joe and Lauri are waiting for him by the tall hedges that surround the house. They stand close to each other, holding hands and talking quietly to themselves. It is a picture of new love and it makes Will’s chest ache in some way he doesn’t understand. Perhaps it is because the war may have stolen his chance at finding love. He had been beginning to entertain that possibility with Kara but such thoughts must be thrown away. The only thing that matters now is survival and somewhere down the line, an end to the war. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Alright, Will?” Joe says when he reaches them. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Comment ça va</em>?” Lauri asks, giving him a concerned look. <em>How are you?</em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I’m fine,” Will says without thinking. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He has decided not to pay attention to his feelings during this whole ordeal, it only serves to make it all the more miserable. It doesn’t matter how he feels about it. The situation is clear. War has called his name and he must answer.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will glances around, looking up and down the dirt path that snakes away from his house. “Is…Tom coming?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He hasn’t told anyone about what happened in the bathroom in last night. There is nothing to say, nothing happened, did it? His pulse is already picking up at the memory. After Will had calmed down he had gone downstairs to check on Tom but Blanche said she had seen him leave with a couple bottles of cider and Max and Killy in tow. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Lauri and Joe cast each other unsure glances before they look at Will. Joe says, “I don’t know, mate, we stayed at that inn in the outskirts of the village last night. If he’s not already here…”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Maybe he’s embarrassed about last night and he cannot face Will. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Lauri smiles, “I am sure he will come to say goodbye. Max is already at the train station waiting to say goodbye—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“—and Tom did drink a lot at the reception last night so—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“It’s fine,” Will tells them even though it isn’t. Briefly, he wonders how he ruined that relationship. It doesn’t matter now. He glances at his wristwatch, “we should go, my train is in fifteen minutes.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will catches the uncertain glances Joe and Lauri give each other as he starts walking. They linger behind him for a few seconds, whispering to each other before they jog to catch up with him. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Let me carry this mate,” Joe says, taking Will’s bag from him. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Lauri comes up to his side and loops her arm through his, she tugs him close as they walk through the golden fields. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Lauri,” Will says. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Oui?</em>” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He isn’t sure how else to say it. He settles for Tom’s peculiar brand of brashness. “Would you please look after my grandmother while I’m…away,” he says, “you might be one of the few people in the village she likes and it would truly put my mind at ease.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He would have asked Tom to do it but he cannot read Tom these days. He’s all over the place and Will doesn’t know how to talk to him without Tom snapping at him or making an excuse to leave. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Joe laughs, “he’s right about that, she bloody loves you.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Bien sûr, tout ce que je peux faire pour aider.</em>” Lauri says, letting out a soft chuckle and smiling up at Will. <em>Of course, anything I can do to help.</em></span>
</p><p class="p4"><span class="s2"> <em>“</em> </span> <span class="s1"> <em>Merci mille fois. Je ne peux pas partir sans savoir qu'elle ira bien,”</em>  </span> <span class="s2">Will sighs, feeling some nagging weight lift off his shoulders. <em>Thank you a thousand times. I cannot leave without knowing she will be okay. </em></span></p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Beside her, Joe pouts and says, “can we speak English please? Some of us aren’t bilingual.”</span>
</p><p class="p4"><span class="s2">“</span> <span class="s1"> <em>Désolée, mon nounours,” </em> </span> <span class="s2">Lauri giggles and rubs Joe’s arm up and down.<em> Sorry, my teddy bear. </em>“You have been in France for two years, I am surprised you have not learnt basic French.”</span></p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Ah</em>, might be because I’m too busy avoiding Bosche shells to get a French tutor.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">She waves a hand in the air, “a French tutor for what? Your wife is a native speaker.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Joe seems to radiate with happiness at the reminder Lauri is his wife. Will worries they are going to start snogging in front of him. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">They have to pass Rainford Library to get to the station, Will gives it one last longing look before they follow the sharp turn of the road and reach the station. It’s oddly silent when Will, Lauri and Joe step onto the platform. There’s not even the sound of a birdsong, there is no wind rustling or conversation. It is silent and empty as if there have reached a particular vacant spot of space and time. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will glances at his wristwatch. <em>Two minutes.</em> He should have been here ten minutes ago as he likes to get anywhere early but he wanted to spend more time with his grandmother. Lord knows when he will see her again. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Attendez,” </em>Lauri says, hovering a hand over her eyes to shield from the morning sun, “is that Tom?” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Where?” Will says, his pulse picking up once again at the mention of his name. He glances around at the platform.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Lauri shakes her head and points to the opposite platform, “there. I think he is with Max.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will follows the direction of Lauri’s finger and there, snoozing under the metal post that reads RAINFORDare Tom and Max. They are both asleep, Max has his head bent back as Tom sleeps soundly in his lap. Will’s heart skips a beat and for a split second he allows himself the feeling of elation. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“They’re still in their suits,” Joe comments, “…did they sleep here last night?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The idea is startling and endearing at the same time, that Tom didn’t want to miss saying goodbye to Will he drunkenly left the reception and camped out at the train station all night. Perhaps that is wishful thinking. Thomas Blake has become somewhat of a mystery to him these days.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I think so,” Will mumbles, reeling from the idea that Tom would do such a thing for him all of people. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Oi!</em>” Joe cups his mouth around his mouth and shouts, “Tom! Max! Wake up!”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Max is the one who is startled awake, he looks around groggily and when he spots Joe and Lauri waving at him, he blinks and nudges Tom awake. Tom bats Max’s hand away but when Max says something, Tom leaps up and looks over the platform. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">It’s then the signal starts sounding, the shrill sound of a bell to letting everyone know the barriers are closing and the train is approaching.Tom closes his eyes, wincing at the sound before they fly wide open when he realises the meaning. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“He’s on the wrong platform,” Will says more to himself than anyone else.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Joe glances at him and then back at Tom and Max, in his loudest voice, he bellows, “Will’s train here, come to our platform now!”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom jumps off the bench in a flash, leaving Max confused as he disappears down the stairs. Will glances down the platform to see his train approaching them. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t worry mate, he’ll make it, ” Joe says, slapping a hand on Will’s shoulder. “Plus, I’ll be down in France by Sunday. Who knows…we might run into each other on the Front.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I hope not,” Will says, “but you shouldn’t worry about the front, you’re leaving for your honeymoon today, enjoy it.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Joe chuckles, “<em>oh</em>, I will.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The train slides into the station, grinding to a halt before them. Will smiles and he pulls Joe in for a hug. He pats Will’s back and whispers for him to stay safe. When he pulls away, he turns to hug Lauri. She kisses his cheek and promises to send him ample poetry to read in France.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“You’re joining the Eighth, right?” Joe asks when he pulls away from Lauri. Will nods as Joe hands him his bag back and says, “remember, Mayor Leslie’s son is a lieutenant in the Eighth, if you let him know you’re from Rainford he’ll look out for you. He’s a grumpy bastard but he’s a good man.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Sure,” Will says, glancing around the platform for any sign of Tom but he’s nowhere to be seen. Surely, it cannot take that long to run here? He cannot wait any longer. The next train to London is in three days and he doesn’t fancy going to jail for failing to turn up to training. He pulls the metal door of the train open and steps inside. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Will!</em>” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The familiar voice cuts through the busy noise of the train. He spins around to see Tom running towards him. Tom comes to a stop before him, bent over with his hands on his thighs as he struggles to catch his breath. Tom looks up and Will is enthralled by his eyes, big and bright blue like the sky above them. Last night springs up in his mind again, Tom’s warm mouth on his neck and the roughness of his voice when he spoke, Will’s grip on the bag tightens as he wills the memory away. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, bloody hell,” Tom pants as he tugs at his tie to loosen it, “<em>Will.” </em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Tom,” Will says because it is the only thing he can say in that moment.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom straightens, he looks more distressed than Will has ever seen him and it wrenches something inside him. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom draws in a breath, “Will, listen, I'm sorry about how I've been acting lately, I just, you're my best friend and I—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">A sharp whistle pierces the air. It’s time to go. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Tom get back,” Joe says, reaching forward to rest a hand on Tom’s shoulder, “the train is leaving.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom shrugs Joe’s hand off, his gaze doesn’t leave Will’s as he says, “<em>Will</em>—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Were you out here all night?” Will asks because he has to know. “Were you waiting for me?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">That curious blush spreads across Tom’s cheeks. He presses his mouth into a fine line before he says, “yeah, I didn’t want to miss my chance to see you off.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Move!”</em> A gruff voice shouts. Will and Tom look to the front of the train where the conductor is hanging out of the window. The man glares at them, “I’m on a schedule. Either get on or get back!”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom frowns as he steps back, his eyes widening as his chest rises up and down. “You’re coming back, aren’t you?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will is torn between the truth as he sees it; <em>I’m not sure if I will </em>and the lie as he would like to see it; <em>of course, I will. </em>The train jolts to life as it starts creaking along the tracks. Will closes the door and leans out of the small window. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know,” he says. He cannot bring himself to lie to Tom. “I hope so.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Tom starts jogging along with the train as it picks up speed.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“You’re coming back, Will!” he shouts.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">In the distance, Will sees Max appear from the stairs behind Lauri and Joe. He waves half-heartedly at Will. </span>
</p><p class="p3"><span class="s1">Tom skids to a halt when he reaches the edge of the platform. </span> <span class="s1">He leans over the metal railing and keeps on shouting, “you’re coming back even if I have to go to France and drag you home myself!”</span></p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Despite everything, it draws a smile from Will. Perhaps him and Tom are going to be okay. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <b>May</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Dear Nan, </em> </span>
</p><p class="p3"><span class="s1"> <em>I hope you are well. I arrived in Kingston over a month ago now. I had my hair shaved down into a military cut on my second night and feel that I look like Bill Sykes. It is not the most flattering cut. Oh, it is a different life here and comes hard at first. I share a room with ten other boys, we sleep on bunk beds fit for young children but I cannot complain as two other boys arrived too late to claim a bed and they sleep with four blankets on the hard floor. </em> </span> <span class="s1"> <em>I didn’t get used to it until last night which was my first night’s proper rest. The food is fair but served very rough and not enough after the drills you have to go through. The weather has of course been very bad and the washing facilities for clothes here are terrible.</em> </span></p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I was inoculated last Thursday but was not so bad but some of the fellows felt it. I expect I shall have a time with the next lot but hope I don’t as they have not got much sympathy and of course there is no comfort. A lot of fellows (about four hundred and fifty) have been shifted (Saturday and today) to Roussillon and rumour says we shall all probably go there too when we get fitted out as they are making a new camp there with three new companies. I may say that four of our chaps who were lucky to get their outfit last week were moved to Roussillon this afternoon. I believe I am to be next but there is still another two months of training left.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>It cannot be worse than here which is very dreary and lonely. Perhaps lonely is not the right word as I have reunited with an old friend from my Eton days. You may remember him, George Parry. About a week into my arrival I had been in line in the mess tent for supper when I saw him glaring at his plate of food in disgust. I had sat down with him and we had immediately caught up on the last three years, it feels as if no time has passed at all. He introduced me to one of his roommates, Francis Butler, a brash, bright-eyed boy from Yorkshire who reminds me of Tom. Butler and Parry make the days at Kingston more bearable, sometimes, it hardly feels like we are training for war but that I am back in Eton with my old friends. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p3"><span class="s1"> <em>Army ways are funny and I have already found out a lot of which I trust I shall one day be able to tell you. I forget to tell you we all got split up into different huts when we arrived and mine is about a mile away from the camp. Well I bid you all adieu for the present. </em> </span> <span class="s1"> <em>I think of you often and only wish I was back again but it has to be done and one can only hope the end will come soon. Goodnight.</em> </span></p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Yours sincerely, </em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Will</em> </span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <b>June</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">One hot night in early summer, Will dreams of Rainford. He dreams of the countless sheep grazing on the endless green hills, of Idun’s tree deep in the lush forest but most of all, he dreams of Tom. He dreams of Tom standing on the broken roof of Danecroft Castle, dressed in a loose shirt with his hands stuffed into a pair of dark pants, his curly hair ruffling in the wind as he looks out onto the village below. Will cannot see Tom’s face as he stands behind him and when he opens his mouth to call Tom’s name, the wind takes it and Tom hears nothing. He tries to call Tom again but the wind rips the name from his mouth and he tries to walk to him but the wind has picked up, stronger than ever and it keeps him planted to the spot. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He screams — a hand is slammed over his mouth and he opens his eyes to find Butler looming above him. Butler keeps his hand on Will’s mouth as he presses one finger to his own and quietly shushes him. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“We’re going out,” Butler whispers.</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Somewhere across the dark room, Parry says, “get dressed, Schofield.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Butler takes his hand off Will’s mouth.</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t understand,” he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he tries to make sense of everything. “What’s going on?” </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Butler shoves a pile of clothes on Will’s chest, “No time to explain, just get dressed.” </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Will frowns and Parry chuckles. He says, “everything’s fine mate, we promise, we’re just going out.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Will stares up at them, “out where?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <strong>☾</strong>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Bushy Park is eerie yet beautiful in the night. The moon hangs full and bulbous in the clear, black sky. Its silver light transforms the world into something from a Grim fairytale, the kind Nan would tell him when she visited the manor back in Cookham. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">The summer night is heavy with the scent of lavenders and freshly cut grass. Heron Pond glistens in the moonlight. Butler yanked off his clothes the second it came into view and jumped in without a second thought. Will and Parry sit on the flat banks of the iridescent pond, watching Butler swim and occasionally comment on how pretty the night is. Parry drinks from the wine bottle he stole from home and snuck into his luggage.</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Is this a good idea?” Will asks, glancing at his wristwatch. It takes a bit more effort to read the time in the dim light, “reveille is in two hours.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Scho,” Parry says, putting the wine bottle down. He pulls out a cigarette pack and lighter from his jacket pocket. He yanks out one cigarette and shoves the pack away. “I stopped worrying about good ideas when our government decided to fuck democracy and drag us all into this war.” </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">The reminder of the tragic state of the world makes him want to scream. He grabs the wine bottle and spins the lid open. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Did you bring cups?” Will asks, knowing it’s a futile question but hoping otherwise. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">The look Parry gives him confirms the futility. He says, “I’m afraid not, your majesty.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Shut up,” Will grumbles before he takes a long swig of the wine. He grimaces, “bloody hell, is this rosé?” </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Mother had a party the night before I left, there wasn’t much alcohol left.” He runs a hand down his face, “It’s funny, she said it was for me…to see me off in style but — truly, it was to show off to her country club friends that another one of her sons was fighting for King and Country. A few of her friends have close ties with the royals.” Parry says, flicking the lighter on and off. He sighs, “sometimes I think my brother dying in Loos was the best thing that has ever happened to her. She revels in the attention she gets as a mourning mother and I cannot help but think if I die in France, it will be the second best thing that’s ever happened to her. The mother of two dead soldiers? She will be insufferable.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Parry looks up at the stars and sighs again.</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry about your brother,” Will says, hesitating for a moment before he reaches out and squeezes Parry’s shoulder. Joe does it to Tom when he’s upset. “I didn’t know.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Thanks,” Parry says and then looks at him, “I’m sorry about your father.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Will tenses, letting go of Parry’s shoulder. He shrugs, “it’s fine.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">It was Father’s birthday two weeks ago, which also marks the day he hung himself. Will had buried himself in training, not allowing one thought about the man to enter his head. He only thought of Nan and that she would have to endure this day alone. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Is it?” Parry says, “you left Eton three days after you found out. You didn’t say goodbye. You didn’t write to me either.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“I—I know, I’m sorry,” he says, wincing at the memory. Nan had arrived at Eton with sad eyes and soft commands for him to pack his things away as it was time to leave. “Everything happened quite quickly. One day I was debating the Revolution of 1848 with you and Hutton and the next day I was in some tiny village in Essex listening to my grandmother’s latest gossip. I wanted to write to you, I did but the longer I left the less I felt you wanted to hear from me.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Parry doesn’t say anything for a while. Nearby, crickets chirp and Butler splashes in the water. Parry flicks open the lighter, “Hutton is dead.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“What?”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“He died in Loos,” Parry goes on, “bullet right in the eye.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Will whispers, “Oh my God.” </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Alfred Hutton had been his roommate in Eton. He had been a pious, anxious boy and Will wonders if he had the chance to pray to the Lord before the bullet hit him. The last time he saw Hutton he helped Will carry his luggage down the spiralling stairs and into the car that awaited him in the street. Hutton had shook Will’s hand and told him he would be in his prayers.</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Butler starts screaming, splashing around in the water and making Will and Parry jump.</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, <em>God!</em> Something bit me!” Butler shouts.</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Bloody hell,” Will gets up, ready to jump in there and pull him out when Parry tugs him back down. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Parry puts the cigarette in his mouth, “three, two…”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, wait, it was just a stick!” Butler says with a laugh. “It’s all good!”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">He dips under the water. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Idiot,” Parry mumbles as he flicks the lighter open and burns the tip of the cigarette. He flicks it close and tucks it into front pocket of his jacket. He takes a puff and blows it out. He smirks, “I don’t know what I see in him.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Will smiles as Butler floats onto his back and tries to count each star in the sky. He says, “have you told him?”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Parry just scoffs again.</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“I think you should,” Will says with a shrug, “we’re being shipped off tomorrow, Lord knows what France holds for any of us.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Parry gives Will a curious look, his blue eyes turn silver under the moonlight. He blows smoke out from the side of his mouth. “<em>You</em>, Mr. Repressed, wants to tell me about expressing my feelings?”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Will frowns, “I’m not repressed.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">People think because he keeps to himself and he knows how to control himself he is repressed.</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Rather, you’re <em>less</em> repressed than you were in Eton,” he says, flicking the ash off the cigarette. “Rainford must be good for you.”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1"><em>It is,</em> Will thinks,, suddenly wishing to be back there more than anything.</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Besides,” Parry says, glancing back at Butler in the water, “he already knows, I wanted to make things official tonight, get some wine, a little midnight picnic by the lake, <em>maybe </em>get lucky since its our last night before — you know…but then he got excited and invited you along, not that I mind. It’s better we’re all together.” Parry looks at Will and barks out a laugh, “are you blushing? I didn’t even go into details, mate.” He leans into Will with a raised eyebrow, “should I go into details? I wanted to climb on top of him and ride—”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Will shoves him and Parry falls back onto the grass as he keeps laughing. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t want to hear about the particulars of your love life, Parry.” He says, his face burning. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Oi!” Butler calls from the lake, he waves a hand in the air, “come in, the water’s lovely!”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Parry puts the cigarette out on the grass. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Coming!” He shouts back, already pushing himself to stand up and toe off his boots. He takes his clothes off until he is left in his underpants. He glances down at Will with that infuriating smirk, “which was my plan tonight by the way—”</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Will throws a stick at him, it hits Parry in the back of the head. Parry just laughs and runs, leaping into the water with a big splash. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Scho!” Butler shouts, “come in!” </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Will puts the lid back on the wine bottle. He pulls off his clothes and shoes before he tucks them neatly on the grass and runs to join his friends in the lake. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <b>July</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <b>2 hours, 14 minutes to go</b> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Odd, isn’t it,” Parry remarks, blowing out a puff of smoke from the cigarette hanging between his fingers.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will brings his knees up and rests his elbows atop them.He glances at his friend. “What is?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The sun rose half an hour ago. Will and Parry sit on the outskirts of camp in the fields with the crickets chirping in the distance and the tall grass swaying and rustling in the cool wind. Parry woke him up an hour ago, whispering he couldn’t sleep and they walked and walked until they reached this quiet spot. They left Butler to sleep as he has been nervous about the upcoming battle for the last week and he needs all the sleep he can get. Additionally, Butler tends to be insufferable if he doesn’t get at least six hours of sleep.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“It feels like we’re about to go off for a picnic rather than a battle,” Parry says. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will glances up at the sky, the bright blue shade reminds him of Tom and how Tom stared at him on that platform as Will’s train sped away, wide-eyed and distraught. If it wasn’t for the thin streaks of clouds that mar the perfect blue it would be a clear day. If it wasn’t for the battle they face it would be a perfect day for a picnic. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I would prefer a picnic over a battle any day,” Will says, aiming for humour but the dread within him turns his words cold, and regretful. Quickly, he looks to distract from this by adding, “it’s my friend’s birthday today.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“My God,” Parry says, taking a long drag of his cigarette. He blows out the smoke. It goes drifting up into the bright sky. “Imagine that….spending your birthday in battle.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He cannot. He can barely believe he’s in northern France only hours away from his first battle as a soldier. The funny thing is, before his father’s death, he was going to spend the summer in Paris with some family friends. He thought those plans had been dashed upon Father’s demise but here he is. The Lord has a funny way of giving one what they desire. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“How old is he today?” Parry asks. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Twenty.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He prays Joe survives this. He prays they all do. He thinks of Hutton and his penchant for praying and he wonders what good that did in the end. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Is this the one that joined up the minute the war was announced?” Parry asks, “your mate from the village?” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will nods as he starts pulling at the grass. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Parry hums, “Two years at war…brave man.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Behind them, a voice shouts, “arseholes!”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will and Parry glance back to see Butler wading through the tall grass to reach them. Will smiles and Parry laughs when Butler slumps down to sit between them. Butler snaps his fingers at Parry who rolls his eyes and gives Butler a cigarette from the pack he keeps in his front pocket. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Do they not teach manners up north?” Parry grumbles as he holds out the lighter for Butler.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Butler just grins when he's lit his cigarette. He blows out the smoke and leans over to press a quick kiss to Parry’s cheek. He glances between Will and Parry and laughs, “oh, c’mon, lads, cheer up!”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will and Parry give him the same confused look. Will says, “pardon?” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“We’ll be fine, Haig’s got this in the bag,” Butler says with that grin.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will’s eyebrows furrow, “What bag?” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Parry chuckles, “it’s this silly idiom his American cousin taught him last week and he hasn’t stopped using it.” He leans past Butler to look at Will, “he means Haig’s plan is foolproof.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Butler’s grin only seems to widen. “Don’t you get it?” He says, glancing between the two of them again, “<em>this is it. </em>This is the day we break the Bosche line. Hell, this is the day we send those bastards running! This—” Butler blows out a puff of smoke, “—is history in the making, lads.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“But…what kind of history?” Will asks. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Winner’s, obviously,” Butler says and holds the cigarette out for Will, “here.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“No, thanks,” he says with the slight shake of his head. He has never been able to stand the smell.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Suit yourself,” Butler shrugs and goes back to smoking.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Parry groans, “I’m hungry, when’s breakfast?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Despite everything, despite the battle looming over them, Will laughs. “How can you be hungry? I’ll throw up if I eat.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“It’s at six,” Butler says</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Yes</em>,” Parry whispers.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t get too excited,” Will says, “it will be biscuits again.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Butler glances at Will, “Scho, you oughta have something mate, we got a long day ahead.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Even if it is those horrid biscuits,” Parry adds. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will hums in response and lies back on the grass, folding his arms under his head. Parry lays his head on Butler’s shoulder. Butler smiles at him before he closes his eyes and rests his own head atop Parry’s. A pair of ravens fly across, their dark wings stark against the bright sky. In the far distance, the shellfire bombardment rings out, it throbs in Will’s ear, calling them to join. </span>
</p><p class="p7"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <b>45 minutes to go</b> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The call to war is one of violence and terror. Shellfire cascades all around them, so much and with such intensity it should be felt around the world. Hundreds of troops march through the labyrinthine paths of the trenches. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“What you are witnessing right now…!” Lieutenant Richards bellows over the hailing shellfire as he stands atop a milk crate to address the throng of soldiers, “…is the greatest bombardment in the history of the world! From Beaumont Hamlet down to the marshes of the Somme, we are raining hell on the Germans!”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The crowd cheers and Will joins in, clapping and whistling, finding himself emboldened by Parry and Butler’s excitement and Richards’ stunning rhetoric. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“The strength of our artillery is unprecedented!” Richards shouts on, his face has turned red from the effort, “once our bombardment is finished, you will be left with the easiest job of all. You will be able to go over the top with a walking stick. You will not need rifles. When you get to Thiepval you will find the Germans all dead. Not even a rat will have survived!”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The cheers almost, <em>almost</em> drown out the screaming shellfire. </span>
</p><p class="p7"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <b>21 minutes to go </b> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Behind the line, Will, Parry and Butler huddle around Captain Nevill with the rest of their platoon. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">They will be the first to go over. The first line of men to face the fury of the enemy and the mere thought of it threatens to paralyse him with fear. Fear has no place in battle. He has seen is how fear is met. Four boys have already been dragged away for insubordination and their fates will be on par with the one that awaits Will over the trench. If he is to die, he would rather die on his feet. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“I’ve given all of my platoons this,” Nevill says, holding a dirty football in the air, “the first platoon to get their ball into enemy lines wins a reward.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Chatter spreads through the men like wildfire. Parry scoffs, “he’s bloody lost it.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Oi</em>, that’s fantastic,” Butler grins, jabbing Will and Parry with his elbows, “like I needed anymore incentive to end the Bosche.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will says nothing, his gaze remains on the Captain who watches the thrilled faces of the boys with a half smile. The ball has letters carved into its skin. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p class="p2">
    <em>The Great European Cup</em><br/>
<em>The Final</em><br/>
<em>East Surreys v Bavarians</em><br/>
<em>Kick Off at Zero</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <b>13 minutes to go </b> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"> <em>This is it. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will and Butler’s line are being called up to take formation in the front. Will watches with his heart in his throat as Parry and Butler cling to each other, ignoring the annoyed glances many passing boys throw them for obstructing the path. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Parry whispers something in Butler's ear. Butler smiles and whispers back, “soon.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Kara flashes in his mind, red hair like fire and eyes of steel, then it is Tom. Tom on the night of Joe and Lauri’s wedding with his warm mouth grazing his neck and his captivating gaze. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will glances away to give Parry and Butler some shred of privacy even they are standing in the middle of the down trench. Parry won’t be going over the top like Will and Butler, he will stay firmly positioned along the line with the other machine gunners. They are smiling at each other when Will looks back at them. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Schofield,” Parry says. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Parry,” he says, feeling a lump form in his throat. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Apprehension twists in his stomach and wildly, he thinks this might be the last time he ever sees Parry but this is what is all about isn’t it? Those three months of training. It was preparing them for this battle and countless others.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“You three!” Lieutenant Leslie marches towards them, he takes a puff of his cigarette and glares, “does this look like a bloody park? Get in formation! Zero hour is in thirteen minutes!”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will, Parry and Butler straighten up to salute him. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, sir!” They shout in unison. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Lieutenant Leslie grumbles something and marches off. When he’s out of earshot, Parry turns to Will and holds his hand out. “Good luck, mate,” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will nods and clasps Parry’s hand, giving it a firm shake.”You too.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Parry’s grip on his hand tightens as he pulls Will into a hug, patting his back with his other hand. He whispers into Will’s ear, “you look after Butler for me, won’t you? He’s a reckless idiot.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He chuckles, “I will.”</span>
</p><p class="p7"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <b>9 minutes to go</b> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The earth shakes and screams, torn apart inch by inch with every shell that falls. Will is crouched against the wall of the trench, gripping his rifle between his knees. Butler clings onto the ladder attached to the steep, dirty slope that leadsup to No Man’s Land. Parry is off somewhere down the line in charge of working the machine guns. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He thinks of Tom, chasing after the train and demanding Will return or he would jump into the war to drag him out. He thinks of Tom’s eyes, blue and hopeful, under the amber lights of the bathroom as he leaned into Will and asked him if he really thought Tom hated him. He thinks of Joe, some forty miles away between Ovillers and La Boiselle, hailed by gunfire and shellfire on his birthday. He thinks, this time two years ago, they were celebrating his eighteenth in the Round Table with an endless stream of alcohol before they ambled over to Danecroft. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He has to survive this. He has to return to Rainford — to Nan, to Tom and Joe, to Lauri and her enticing pile of books filled with ancient words, to the decay of Danecroft Castle, to all of it, to <em>home</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Another blast. Atkins, a sharp-faced boy of the Public Schools Battalion, poked his head over the lip of the trench eager to race into battle or perhaps he was curious at what lay overhead, for whatever reason, the force of the blast throws him onto the floor of the trench. Over the edge of the trench, huge mounds of dirt fly up into the air, rising hundreds of feet high up before it collapses back in on itself and Will covers his head to shield himself from the raining dirt and rock. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Atkins lands next to Will, missing him by a few inches. He groans. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Fucking hell, are you trying to get yourself killed?” Lieutenant Leslie stands over him, shouting, “you silly little bastard!”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will shuffles over to Atkins and helps him sit up. He wonders what would be worth risking your life to look over the edge. “Are you okay? Why did you do that?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“The Hawthorn Ridge,” Atkins says. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">"Pardon?” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“The Hawthorn Ridge mine!” Butler shouts from his position on the slope, “I don’t blame him, I wanted to take a look too but I didn’t fancy getting my head blown off!” That wide grin is back, “Atkins, how was it?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will isn’t sure if Atkins' face is ashen from the blast or the dust that seems to swallow them all in waves. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“A pillar of flame,” Atkins says, pushing himself to stand. He dips when another explosion sounds a few metres away. He looks down at Will who is still crouched on the ground. A wicked smile takes over Atkins' face, “the Bosche don’t stand a chance.” </span>
</p><p class="p7"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <b>3 minutes to go</b> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">More explosions. These ones are far bigger than the Hawthorn Ridge mine. They shake some soldiers off the slopes and send rocks the size of heads plunging into the trenches.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will dodges about half of them and his helmet (<em>thank you, Lord)</em> shields off the rest. Butler isn’t quite as lucky, a rock slams into his forehead and for a horrifying second Will thinks Butler is dead before the battle even begins but then Butler swears and kicks the rock away. Will lets out a shuddering breath. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Something will not stop roaring, the sky or the earth or God demanding they end this battle, it doesn’t matter, the battle has not even begun.</span>
</p><p class="p7"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <b>24 seconds to go</b> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Thunder and wrath and then — <em>silence</em>. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The bombardment has stopped and all that remains is silence and dust. Silence is a vacant, cutting thing. Sharp enough to cut through time and give the illusion it has frozen. Later, much later, he will swear he heard the distant, haunting sound of birdsong. Somewhere to his right, a freckled platoon commander walks up and down the footboard saying, <em>it’s a walkover. </em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"><em>This is it. This </em>is the moment. The void before the reign of terror that will torment him for the rest of his life.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> <b>zero hour</b></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The whistle blows. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">His body moves without thought and in the blink of an eye, he has climbed over the trench and onto the vast, broken field of No Man’s Land. There’s nothing up here but a thick, shimmering curtain of mist and snow-white dust twenty feet ahead. Some boys charge forward, rifles raised and roaring with earth as they disappear into the curtain. Other boys, like Will, walk carefully across the scarred land. If it wasn’t for the hefty rifle in his arms, Will could convince himself he was walking through Jade Park. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">He looks around for Butler and he spots him a few feet away with the rifle tipped back against one shoulder as he passes the football to Will. Will catches it under the heel of his boot. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Butler smiles at him, “c’mon, Scho.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">This could be an afternoon in Jade Park. When all this is over, Butler and Parry can visit Rainford and — Butler screams, his body starts shaking like a ragdoll as dozens of tiny bloodied holes appear across his chest. All around them, many other boys are twirling and falling too and it takes Will a second too late to realise it’s machine gunfire.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Butler!” Will screams, watching with wide eyes as Butler collapses to the ground.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">The Bosche artillery is terrific. It tears up the ground before them. Will moves to run to him but a shell drops nearby and it sends him flying back. The wind has been knocked out of him and he struggles to breathe and he cannot see anything, there’s so much dust and the screaming, <em>God</em>, the screaming it pierces right through him. Will squeezes his eyes shut as coughs wrack his body, convinced the dust has coated his lungs. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Someone grabs him by the collars of his jacket and yanks him up. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Butler,” Will coughs, praying that it’s his friend and he imagined it all. “Oh, my God, Butler, Butler, are you…are you…”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Someone is shouting something at him but Will cannot hear it over the ringing in his ears, their grip on Will’s jacket is tight as they shake him. Will wants to tell them he cannot hear a thing but the dust is clogging up his throat and he can hardly breathe. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will opens his eyes to find Lieutenant Leslie is the one holding onto his jacket. He looks like a ghost, covered from head to toe in white dust. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“…dead!” Leslie shouts.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Butler,” Will repeats, still coughing, “where’s — where’s Butler…”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Somewhere, a platoon commander’s bellowing orders reach him. “Extend by sections!” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“Schofield, you bloody idiot!” Leslie glares at him, “Butler is fucking <em>dead!</em> I counted every bullet that went into him and if that didn’t kill him that shell did!”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will coughs again, rising up onto his knees as Leslie keeps shaking him. He gasps for air but only swallows more dust, “<em>no…no…</em>” His ears are ringing as more blasts rip the earth to shreds and the heat of it promises to burn him. “<em>Butler</em>…”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">“He’s dead!” Leslie glances away to spit a wad of blood onto the ground before he continues shouting, “Every second we spend here is a second closer to our own death!” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Will grips Leslie’s wrists and stares at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. Around them, the world has descended into chaos and vaguely, he wonders if a bullet has already caught Joe or if he’s still in the trenches, enduring that excruciating wait for the whistle. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1"><em>“</em>Listen to me, Schofield!” Leslie shakes him again, and dips when a shell plummets somewhere behind him. “The barbed wire is one hundred yards away and just twenty yards from that is the German front line! Now, <em>get the fuck up</em> and go capture Thiepval!”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Leslie lets go of him, picks up a pair of bayonets and disappears into the mist. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">Shaking, Will grabs his rifle and stands up, stumbling slightly as he does. He draws in adeep breath and charges into the storm of dust and bullets.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><br/>after that july section, i'm a half expert in the somme now lool. yknow the football challenge by captain nevil is real?? but honestly, the somme is gonna scar scho for a long time, i often see it as his defining battle and his deepest trauma, the battle that changes everything, it's the reason he's so despondent in the film. i'm rambling now, thank you so much for reading! </p><p>part 5 will be up sooooon and it is the infamous year of 1917 in tom's POV.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>